


In Another Life

by fabricdragon



Series: you're the wrong one, but oh so right [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Baking, Character Development, Complete, Developing Relationship, F/M, Forced to talk to each other, M/M, Multiple Relationships, Not multipartner at once, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Polyamory, Romantic Comedy, it's for their own good, past betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Some time after  "Love Potion number 9 it isnt, but it will have to do" Sherlock, John, and Sebastian  worry about Mycroft and Jim... and set them up.it's for their own good...but it's complicated.if starting here: Jim Moriarty/Mycroft Holmes, john Watson/Sally Donovan and Sebastian Moran/Sherlock Holmes all ended up together thanks to being unwittingly and accidentally drugged (it should have killed them, instead... well.. smut ensued) In the aftermath John and Sally got together, Sebastian and Sherlock got together, and Jim and Mycroft stayed apart, but gained some new ideas about each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/gifts).



“How’s Donovan?” Sherlock asked as John came in.

“Sally… is fine, actually,” John grinned. Sherlock was holding Rosie on a burping towel over one shoulder while he stared down into his microscope.

“Good. Can you stay with Rosie for tomorrow or do I need to ask Mrs. Hudson?” 

“I can stay with her… Oh, Seb back in town?”

“In theory,” said Sherlock.

John clucked sympathetically; last time some business had called him away at the last minute. “Think he’ll have time for a pint?”

“In theory? Yes.” Sherlock sat back, shifting Rosie rather automatically as he did.

“You’re good at that whole parenting thing, you know.” John came over and took her from Sherlock. “Thanks for watching her for me.”

“She’s far more pleasant company than most; also, I have been charting her growth and progress: she is well ahead.”

John laughed, “Scientific babysitting?”

“I am reliably informed that it’s not babysitting if it’s your child–I am her papa, after all.”

John couldn’t help but smile at that. “Yeah.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “I’ll settle Rosie down and… Have you had breakfast? Has she?”

“Errr… SHE has.”

John sighed, “I’ll make breakfast.”

…

Sebastian arrived at a godawful hour of the morning the next day. John only found out when he staggered downstairs for coffee and found Seb sleeping on the couch. He was tempted to stick one of Rosie’s pacifiers in his mouth, but instead just made extra coffee.

John walked over to a good distance away with two cups and called, “Seb?”

“…’m up,”

“There’s coffee…” John sang.

“C’mon, sir? Five?”

“I do NOT sound that much like Jim!” John snorted.

That got Seb to open an eye. “Oh… Coffee?”

John walked up and held out the cup–Seb sat up and took it. “Thanks, mate.”

“When did you get in?”

“I dunno–dark?”

“Can you stay for a bit this time?”

Sebastian shrugged. “You know how it is… probably?” He looked around blearily. “How’s your kid?”

“Adorable.”

“How’s your girl?”

John smirked, “A quick study.”

Seb laughed. “Okay. How’s Sherlock?”

“He’s Sherlock.”

Seb nodded. John tilted his head and asked, “How’s Jim?”

Seb raised an eyebrow. “You don’t normally ask…?”

“Seemed polite.”

Seb nodded. “Not… great.”

John sat down. “Not great–planning to blow something up? Or not great–has the flu?”

“He…” Sebastian sighed. “This doesn’t go anywhere, except Sherlock, okay?”

“Who the hell would I tell?”

“I dunno, just… don’t?”

John nodded, “Alright.”

“He hasn’t been himself since the punch.”

Sherlock’s voice came from the door, “Hasn’t he been? He was doing very well tracking the assassins.”

Sebastian smiled a bit and held out an arm, Sherlock made a show of sniffing at him and then went to sit in his chair. “You need a shower,” he said tartly.

“Alright, truth,” Seb laughed.

“He’s not well?”

“It’s not that anything… It’s nothing I can point to, I guess.” Sebastian shrugged. “Just… He was always prone to depression, a bit… and… lately… it seems–”

John blinked. “Jim? Moriarty? Depression?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian nodded. “I guess… maybe like a mild case of manic depression? I dunno. He gets into stuff and he’s all attention and activity and going without sleep for however long it takes, and then… he gets bored, and cranky and prone to mixing household chemicals.”

John glared at Sherlock.

“What did I do?!” Sherlock looked offended.

“Well, he just described YOU.”

Sebastian nodded. “Well, that’s… that’s usual. Lately it seems like, when he’s not actively working, he just… fades? Seems sort of… melancholy?” Seb shook his head. “It’s not natural–not for him.”

Sherlock hesitantly spoke up, “I rather thought the increase in smuggling was his…”

“Well, yeah… He’s been taking on more work, trying to keep busy.” He chewed his lip and looked over at Sherlock. “Look, after we left London, and before–well, before the punch incident–he seemed okay being semi-retired. He spent a lot of his time going to theater or stuff–kind of normal stuff I guess–maintaining a few identities… a few art thefts. Lately, it’s like he lost interest.”

“That’s not good,” John frowned. “A lack of interest in his usual hobbies, without something new? That’s a classic sign of depression.”

“Yeah.” Sebastian looked down into his cup.

Sherlock looked around cautiously. “Mycroft hasn’t been well either.”

“What?” John looked over at him. “He was fine when he visited.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “No, he wasn’t. He barely snarked at me, and he let his tea get cold.”

Sebastian frowned. “It can’t be like, side effects or anything–can it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “My analysis of the substance was inconclusive, since I had such a small sample, but I consider it more likely that it’s a psychological reaction than a physical side effect.”

John stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Mycroft… let him go; that’s weird, you have to admit that.”

“Jim said…” Sebastian lowered his voice until they both had to sit forward to hear him. “Jim said Mycroft wasn’t… like he thought, that he didn’t hurt him… so it’s not that.”

Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft was in restraints when they found him–I got that from his security people.”

“What? No one mentioned that!” Sebastian sputtered.

“When they found them both, they were naked, Mycroft was in restraints, and… well, the obvious signs of sex.” Sherlock looked thoughtful. “So I would have thought Jim hurt HIM, but Mycroft called me immediately and asked me to help smuggle Jim out. Jim would have been unconscious longer–he had more of the drug.”

Sebastian coughed. “If it was the restraints we had in the hotel?”

“I assume so.”

“Yeah, they look fierce–heavy clasps and all that–but they have a quick release. Those were the play cuffs.”

John looked thoughtful. “So… it might have been… voluntary? Or as voluntary as you get, with that stuff in your system.”

“Could have been,” Sebastian nodded. “With Jim so scared of–” Sebastian shut his mouth fast.

“Scared of my brother? Because of his prior interrogation?” Sherlock looked down at the table and then walked off into the kitchen.

“What?” Sebastian looked puzzled at Sherlock and then looked at John for an explanation.

“He… Well, you saw the scars.”

“What about them?”

“He’s been touchy about interrogation since he got back, from wherever he was…”

Sebastian waited; eventually, Sherlock came back with a tray of biscuits and more tea.

“You got those stripes…?”

“Serbia. One of the interrogators had a whip.” Apparently making tea kept all of his attention: he never looked up. “Which was better than the electricity, although not by much.”

Sebastian got up and pulled him out of his chair. “Why didn’t you say anything? Hell, half of what we did…” Sebastian’s mouth went dry as he thought about how much inadvertent hurt he could have caused. “Jim took MONTHS before he could use cuffs again, even the ones with the quick release, and we worked on that every other day!”

“I don’t like thinking about it,” Sherlock said quietly as Sebastian pulled him over to the sofa and into his lap.

John paused a moment, then brought over the blanket and helped wrap Sherlock in it. He sat down next to them. “You didn’t tell him? Sebastian, you didn’t ask?”

“I LIKE scars. His are pretty.” Sebastian shrugged. “Like Tiger stripes.”

“Jim… has issues… with cuffs?” Sherlock asked after a while.

“Cuffs, needles, metal tables, metal chairs, closed rooms, grey walls, complete darkness, too much light, drugs, electricity, water…” Sebastian sighed, “and you totally never heard this from me.”

“How… bad?”

“It’s better now. It was… It was bad, before. I guess it still is?”

“I think… I think we need to get the two of them together.” Sherlock sighed.

“What?!”

“Neither of them is doing well and… I don’t know why. Do you have a better idea?”

“How the hell would we get the two of them together?” Sebastian almost laughed.

John spoke up, “I think I have an idea?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plots, plans... and baking?

Mycroft hadn’t been sleeping well–to be honest, he hadn’t been sleeping well for quite some time–and so it came as no surprise when Elizabeth Smallwood demanded he visit a doctor.

What DID come as a surprise was learning that Sherlock had in fact recommended it…. and was going with him.

“I assure you, I am quite capable of going to a doctor on my own.”

“I’m certain you are capable; I doubt that you will,” Sherlock said without looking up from his texting–it gave Mycroft an eerie flashback to his old personal assistant. “I wouldn’t, after all.”

“I’ve always taken better care of myself than you have.”

“Not since Euros.”

Mycroft closed his mouth with a snap. Anything he said would be very likely to be taken the wrong way, or twisted against him, so… He engrossed himself in business matters until he got to the doctors, and refused to say a word until he left Sherlock in the examining room.

“I’m just tired,” Mycroft explained to the doctor.

“Mmm-hmm,” the doctor nodded. “Tired can be a symptom of anything from a simple vitamin deficiency to a major issue. That’s why you’re here.”

An EKG, blood draws, and various other tests later–as well as an appointment for a colonoscopy he’d been avoiding–and he finally escaped… only to find that Sherlock was still sitting there.

“You’re still here?”

“Obviously.”

“I rather imagined you would have left by now?”

“Obviously not.”

He had to admit that he liked spending time with Sherlock sober, but he had the distinct feeling he was up to something.

Unfortunately, the results came back with a diagnosis of exhaustion, vitamin deficiencies, and low iron–which would certainly explain a great deal–a reminder that low iron could be caused by intestinal issues, that he needed that colonoscopy, and a suggestion that he take a vacation.

_A vacation!_

He was threatened by most of the intelligence team until he spent a day drinking a vile concoction and eating only clear liquids, another day having unspeakable things done to him for the high crime of being over fifty, and then was bundled home….

…where he found Sherlock and John waiting for him.

As glad as he was that the two of them seemed to have mended their friendship–and John was in intensive counseling with a seriously, and personally, vetted psychologist to deal with things–he wasn’t happy to see them in his home.

“Gone back to breaking and entering Sherlock?”

“Gone back would imply I ever stopped.”

“Point. What can I do for you?”

“I thought you might want a second opinion on your medical results.” Sherlock nodded at John. “One that doesn’t report to your fellows.”

“Just to you?”

John cleared his throat. “I’ll only tell him what you tell me I can tell him, unless I feel you are a danger to yourself or others–more than usual I mean.”

“I am NOT a danger to myself, only to others and only when needed.” Mycroft fixed him with his best steely stare– _to which John Watson was still apparently immune, damn it._

“If you want me to look over your reports, I will; if you don’t, I won’t.” John looked pointedly at him. “But Sherlock has been worried.”

“John!” Sherlock looked betrayed: _genuine–he had been worried, and he was shocked John told me._

John shrugged, “You have been.” He looked back at Mycroft. “Sherlock is worried, and your fellows are worried. I didn’t notice anything at first, but… to be honest, the circles under your eyes are getting a lot worse.”

“Charming bedside manner, doctor.” Mycroft sat down and let John hand him tea. “Very well…” He pulled out his phone and sent the files to John. “You should have them.”

John sat down and paged through the results. After a while, he looked up at Sherlock and then over at Mycroft. “How much do you want Sherlock to hear?”

“Oh, go ahead.”

“Alright. To be bluntly honest, I was going to suggest you take a vacation almost no matter what your results were–at least partly for Sherlock’s nerves.”

Sherlock was glaring at him in a rather amusing fashion.

“But now that I’ve seen these results? Honestly, if you were anyone else I would be recommending not merely a vacation but a leave of absence–an extended one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re the super genius. Here, I’ll go over it with you.” John walked over, pulled a chair up next to him, and gave him a crash course in reading the test results. Sherlock eventually came over and started asking chemistry questions.

Of course, Mycroft already had some knowledge of this from having to review interrogation work, but… By the time John was done pointing out how the various results added up, Sherlock was positively bristling, and even Mycroft had to admit it looked bad.

“You need an EXTENDED vacation,” John said with a sigh, “but, based on my knowledge of Holmeses, the typical vacation would drive you mad.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft frowned. “Most so-called vacations leave me more stressed than I started.”

“Alright, so… What KIND of things would you consider relaxing?”

“Sleeping in for an hour before going to work or getting a particularly involving case.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Any doubt in my mind about whether you two were related is gone, thank you.”

Sherlock asked thoughtfully, “Cruise ship?”

“Would YOU like being trapped on a floating germ box with those idiots?”

“I’ll take it that’s a no to cruise ships,” John sighed and got out a paper. “Beach?”

“Jellyfish, sharks, and sunburn,” Mycroft frowned.

“I assume hiking or camping is–”

“Camping?!” Mycroft’s eyes widened almost comically.

Sherlock looked up thoughtfully. “How about cooking?”

“What?”

“There are retreat centers and special events for almost any hobby in the world. You used to enjoy cooking.”

“Cooking is pleasant,” Mycroft allowed.

“So perhaps some kind of cooking or,” Sherlock frowned and waved a hand, “art or something retreat?”

“That… might not be terrible.” Mycroft sighed. “But I really think just spending a few days rearranging my books…”

John looked back down at the medical tests. “Mycroft, if your associates DON’T make you take a leave of absence or a vacation? I would be shocked,” he frowned. “And I would suspect they want your job and are waiting for you to keel over.”

Mycroft rather grumpily showed them out– Sherlock promising to help him look up retreats.

Sherlock didn’t say anything until they were home, but as he was hanging up his coat he commented, “You weren’t… that wasn’t how we expected”– _planned–_ “to have this go.”

John waited until he turned around. “I knew you thought he wasn’t well, Sherlock, but I went over those results, and I went over them with Mycroft, and even HE had to admit he needed a vacation–you were right, he isn’t well.”

Sherlock finally, quietly, said, “What… What if it IS lingering effects form the drugs?”

John blinked. “But we’ve been fine?”

Sherlock looked dubious. “The acute effects faded with orgasm; it’s possible that since we were continuing to have sex that we avoided any side effects.”

“You… umm… You don’t have much sex, honestly, Sherlock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s intense when I do have it, and in any event it’s more sex than I was having before–besides, thanks to my prior drug use, my system doesn’t react normally in any event.”

“Right… well, um… let’s look up… what was it you said? Cooking retreats?”

~

Sebastian was really worried when it didn’t take much to convince Jim to go with him to a cooking retreat.

“Whatever, Sebastian,” Jim never looked up from his computer. “I don’t see why you have to learn to be a better cook, your cooking is fine.”

“You… haven’t been eating.” Sebastian came up and carefully closed the laptop. Jim just complained– _he didn’t even throw a knife!_

“I do eat!” Jim glared at him.

“Look… take a look at these, okay? And pick one?” Sebastian put down brochures and printouts.

Jim sighed and took them. He flipped through them. “No, no way, no, maybe, maybe, maybe…” He finally dumped most of them in the trash, handed three back and shrugged. “Any of those, Sebastian, just… handle it.”

Sebastian took the papers and went away. He didn’t even pause but went straight to his room and picked up the phone.

After a bit, a rather sleepy Sherlock answered, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Oh… uh, no… look, Jim is REALLY sick–he didn’t even THREATEN me!”

A sharper and more awake Sherlock replied, “So did he agree?”

“Yes, kind of? He didn’t disagree… which is agreeing… for him.”

“Does he have a preference?”

“Three of them got ‘maybe’, the rest got “no’ so… any of those three?”

“Which three?”

“The high end place in Ireland–”

“Too close to Mycroft’s work,” Sherlock said immediately, “unless we have no better option.”

“The Mexican food and tourism one…” Sebastian looked at the brochure. “It looks nice.”

“Mycroft can’t handle spicy foods if he’s under stress, and he prefers sweets…” Sherlock sighed. “All of his choices were the pastry-oriented. The only one that wasn’t all pastry was pastry and bread.”

“Jim’s third was a baking school…”

“Where?”

“Vermont? The flour company one.”

“Mycroft had that one on his list! He especially liked the guest teachers on tarts and there was someone doing an intensive on bread and dough techniques…”

“Guess we’re going to Vermont then.” Sebastian sighed in relief. “You do know he may have picked it because of the name–Jim always had a thing for the Arthurian myths.”

“Did he? So did Mycroft…”

“He DID?”

“He doesn’t talk about it much, but, where I was obsessed with pirates as a child, he was obsessed with knights and so on. It may have influenced his choice… I can’t imagine Vermont would be on his short list otherwise.”

They both got onto their computers and started looking up hotels.

Sherlock was muttering about hotels and ratings. “Lots of options on their webpage that offer discounts, but I’m not sure any of them are up to Mycroft’s standards.

“Amateur! You don’t know where to look. There’s a highly rated and VERY private bed and breakfast not overly far,” Sebastian grinned into the phone. “Fully equipped themed playrooms, dungeon, and we can rent the whole place to ourselves.”

Sherlock stared at his computer for a while. “Where are you finding that? I, uh, don’t think it’s on the school webpage…”

“Fetish reviews,” Sebastian laughed. “Apparently a lot of BDSM couples took baking classes. Look, I’ll handle the reservations and send you the details: that way, if they don’t kill each other, at least we’ll have someplace to play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baking and cooking retreats are a thing. there IS a luxury one in Ireland and a full immersion Mexican cooking school retreat in Mexico.  
>  I admit i always wanted to go to the King Arthur Flour baking school in Vermont https://www.kingarthurflour.com/baking-school/calendar/?mo=022018&cat=3,8,10,11&loc=1
> 
> (And yes you can look up BDSM and fetish friendly resorts/hotels/Bed and Breakfasts on the fetish groups, but i confess t making this one up out of whole cloth)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Mycroft, Sebastian and Sherlock... and the adventure of the connecting rooms...

Sherlock thought they timed it all well: Sebastian and Jim arrived at the Bed and Breakfast and got unpacked, while Sherlock and Mycroft went directly to the school to ‘look around’ and eat; once Sebastian texted that they had gone into town to get dinner, he and Mycroft went to the Bed and Breakfast and Sherlock showed Mycroft to the room that Sebastian had supposedly claimed as his own.

“Connecting doors, Sherlock?” Mycroft sighed and nodded at the door to the next room. “A bit much, don’t you think? You already conspired with my assistant to deprive me of my laptop–do you think I’ll bolt?”

“The other couple had the rooms downstairs, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed.

“Hmmph.”

Sherlock slipped through to the other room–it was clearly Jim’s–and then out, heading downstairs to find Sebastian had thrown his things hurriedly in one room, so he took the other. It wasn’t long before he heard Sebastian and Jim coming in.

“Should probably keep it down: I understand the other couple just arrived today, too.”

“I’m too jetlagged to care, Seb.”

…

Mycroft had unpacked, hanging his suits with care and frowning at the casual clothing. Bread-baking clothes hardly called for formalwear, but he still felt uncomfortable in relaxed clothes: _too vulnerable._ Still, the schedule he’d arranged with Sherlock called for formal dinners at the restaurants several times this week–Sherlock would probably hate it.

Once again, he wondered why Sherlock had insisted on going.

He heard Sherlock unpacking–finally–moving around with uncharacteristic clumsiness… _Ah, annoyed._ The light in the neighboring room went out sooner than he expected, but then… _True, Sherlock was very tired._

He read a bit: the room had a peculiar but pleasant selection of books, although too many were a bit ribald. It wasn’t until an hour later, when he went to check his phone before he went to sleep, that he realized that it was gone–an empty phone case in its place. He pressed his lips together in annoyance. _Sherlock and his pickpocketing._ He stalked down the hall to take his shower, glowered at the darkened room on his way back, and went to bed

…

Jim woke up to the obnoxious sounds of birds singing. No traffic noise, no television in the room, and Sebastian– _the inhuman fiend!_ –had confiscated his phone during dinner. He got up and showered off– _the shower was at the end of the hall, not even individual to the room!_

 _It… uh… It had restraint points?_ _They were subtle but there, and the shower was big enough for two… and the place had a hot tub downstairs… Ohhhh…. Tiger…_ Jim smiled. _How sweet_.

He went back to his room and got dressed, hearing Sebastian in the next room doing the same. _Funny, I must have slept through Sebie taking a shower, and… Come to that, why didn’t he join me?_

He walked through to the connecting room. “Sebie? It was sweet of you–”

Mycroft looked up at the door opening and froze. They just stared at each other for a few beats, both incongruously dressed: Jim in jeans and a t-shirt, Mycroft in slacks and a polo.

“Jim?” Mycroft whispered. “What on earth are–” He took in the stunned look: _this wasn’t his idea._ “I’ll kill them.”

Jim saw the stunned look on Mycroft and came to the same conclusion. “Your brother and my… Not if I get to them first!” Jim hissed.

“Why? Why would they…?”

“Sebastian has been on about me not doing well since–”

“I was ordered to take a vacation, my health–”

“They handed you a list of places?”

“My brother–and John–suggested cruise ships and camping first,” Mycroft sighed, “and then cooking retreats, since I like to cook.”

“I wondered why Sebastian suddenly wanted to take a cooking retreat! He CLAIMED it was because I wasn’t eating well!” Jim frowned. “Although the jeans are a bit roomy–I’ve just been busy.”

Mycroft looked down at his slacks and admitted, “I’ve lost ten pounds–unintentionally.”

Jim narrowed his eyes. “So… This absolutely isn’t any sort of plot to arrest me…”

“And it clearly isn’t a plot to have me assassinated…”

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. “The delusional idiots are trying to set us UP?”

“It appears so–and Sherlock stole my phone.”

“Sebastian confiscated mine when I texted over dinner.”

“I… had… assumed you two were… together.”

“Sort of. It’s… complicated.” Jim frowned. “So where are… Oh, of COURSE!”

“The other couple downstairs…” they both said in unison.

They both stalked off down the stairs and heard voices coming from the ground floor… they continued down.

Sherlock was in Sebastian’s lap being fed fruit.

“Sebastian…” Jim sang in his least happy fashion.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft dripped disapproval.

They both looked momentarily startled and got up quickly.

“Give me one good reason not to turn you into a RUG, Tiger! I thought you were being romantic…”

“This is uncalled for, Sherlock, and subjecting both of us to a number of problems…”

“I AM being romantic!” Sebastian suddenly shouted, interrupting them both. “I CARE about you, damn it! And If you think Sherlock and I didn’t see that you were BOTH not doing well–“

Sherlock picked up smoothly, “I have no idea whether it’s a physical consequence of the drugs–it seems unlikely, since Sebastian tells me Jim is at least having SOME sex: my initial thought was it was related to that–or psychological from unresolved issues. Based on evidence and surmise, it’s unresolved issues.” He waved, “Voilà, a week away from work.”

Jim glared at him, “We’re leaving.”

Sebastian walked up and glared down at him. “NO, we are NOT leaving. You are going to stay here. You can go to class and make bread, or you can sit in this bed and breakfast–which has no computers or television–and be… bored.”

“You wouldn’t DARE!” Jim stared at him.

“You have been SICK! You haven’t even LOOKED at any art thefts; you won’t go to the theater; you barely eat! I’m doing this for your own good!”

Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft. “You didn’t even snark at me AND you let your tea get cold: that’s when I knew it was serious and I called Lady Smallwood.”

“YOU called!”

Sherlock glared at him. “I have voluntarily isolated myself in a place with terrible internet, no computers, and signed up to take BAKING classes, Mycroft–just how worried do you think I had to be?”

Jim and Mycroft were both taken aback by that.

Jim cleared his throat. “And putting one of my… putting the two of us together is going to help how?”

Sebastian said firmly, “We’re both here. If anyone yelled, we’d hear it, and Mycroft… He could have hurt you and he didn’t. We figure if you at least… get USED to each other…”

Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft. “Apparently, you have a lot in common. You can… talk or something.” He snorted and waved at the door. “In any event, we have to go to class.” He made a face. “Introduction to something or another.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baking... and chemistry

Introduction to Bakers’ Measurements was better than most of them expected: if any of them had known the subject beforehand they could have anticipated it. Sherlock fell in love within moments as he delightedly found out that it was chemistry and proportions. Mycroft gave nothing away as he simply absorbed data and performed perfectly, with precision, but without variation. Jim absorbed the information and began spinning variations before most others had finished one loaf; the instructor finally took him aside and gave him some instruction on high hydration bread variations. Sebastian winced, wrote down the measurements, and decided that flour and water made glue for a reason.

“I’m never getting this stuff off my hands,” Sebastian sighed. “It’s going to gum up my rifles, I just know it.”

Jim was ignoring the lunch in front of him. “This is… actually fun, Sebie, but I’m still mad.”

“Be mad,” Sebastian muttered, “as long as you stop moping.”

Sherlock wandered over, with an obviously reluctant Mycroft. “May we join you? Good, glad to hear it.” Sherlock sat down. “What were you doing with your proportions, Jim? You had far too much water.”

“Making Focaccia, apparently.” Jim shrugged. “It wanted more water.”

Mycroft frowned at him, “You knew how to make that?”

“No, but the dough was… interesting.” Jim made a stirring, petting, gesture with a finger. “Chef says higher percentages of water are used in focaccia and ciabatta loaves–we’ll go over the kneading process in more detail later.”

Sebastian sighed, “Jim is an ‘intuitive baker’, apparently, like so much ELSE he does,” then muttered, “Abstract art–should have known.”

“Abstract?” Mycroft found himself drawn into the conversation despite himself. “I prefer realism, or at least realistic impressionism.”

Jim looked up and there was a flash of the devil in his eyes that Sebastian had been missing. “Good abstract art learns every rule, knows exactly how every line, color, and nuance will affect people…” he lowered his eyelashes and practically purred over his drink, “all so you can… break the rules creatively.”

Sherlock bit his cheek to keep from interrupting. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Is it always about breaking the rules with you?”

“It’s about seeing things a different way and pushing boundaries, Mycroft: if you always do the same thing, you always get the same results.” Jim looked up and locked eyes for just a moment with him. “Focaccia bread dough is so sticky you can’t even knead it the same way, apparently, but it’s got a delicious result. How boring would it be if everything was white sandwich bread?” Jim picked up and walked back toward the classroom.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and felt a headache coming on. “Must he turn everything into an innuendo?”

Sherlock finally couldn’t shut up anymore. “He always did: I rather thought that was milder than usual.”

…

The afternoon was spent kneading and shaping dough–all of it… all of it in the world. Sebastian poured the three of them back in the car, snickering.

“When I can move my arms, Tiger, I’m going to stab you,” Jim said with a hiss as he tried to buckle his seatbelt.

“Uuugh,” Sherlock groaned as he fell into Mycroft’s side, who winced.

“I’m afraid that my arm muscles have been neglected, badly,” Mycroft muttered, “although not as badly as yours Sherlock: been neglecting your martial arts and fencing that badly?”

“Bugger off, Mycroft. I hurt, I have a headache, and I’m starving.”

“Shouldn’t skip arm day at the gym,” Sebastian grinned. He’d be damned before admitting that even he ached a bit; apparently kneading dough used different muscles.

Jim sighed, “Are any of us actually in any shape to try to COOK?”

There was reluctant agreement that no, none of them were.

“Then pick a restaurant or find something to order in.”

Mycroft struggled to sit up. “Well, we HAVE to order in–none of us are dressed to eat out!”

Sherlock groaned, “Don’t even try to argue with him: he won’t leave the car in anything less than a suit.”

Jim looked up thoughtfully and met Mycroft’s eyes in the mirror. “Right,” he said abruptly. “Order in… Find something, Tiger. There’s a hot tub with my name on it back in the house.”

…

As it was, no one made it to the hot tub before dinner arrived, since everyone just fell over once they got in.

“How did that much time go by?” Mycroft muttered as Sebastian brought in the food.

“Exhaustion,” Jim said tiredly. “But I really, really need to clean up…”

“You’ll feel better after you eat,” Sherlock said firmly.

“That is, I believe, my line,” Mycroft snorted.

Sherlock just smirked and helped Sebastian distribute the food, then the two of them went to eat in the kitchen.

“So,” Mycroft sighed, “are they leaving us to talk? Or sneaking off to slobber on each other?”

“You underestimate them, Mycroft: it’s both.”

They sat there eating quietly until the tension got to be too much.

“Thanks again for cutting me loose,” Jim muttered.

“It certainly seemed you were… not a threat to Sherlock, which was my main concern.” Mycroft extended the conversation in much the fashion as one might extend a bare arm to a leopard: hesitantly, and prepared to bolt.

“No…” Jim sighed and tilted his head back on the chair he was in. “I mostly couldn’t believe they were getting married–ridiculous!”

“You… were interested in Sherlock, after all, I suppose you were–”

“Chill, Iceman,” Jim snickered. “Yes, I HAD been interested in Sherlock, but… that was then. If I’d wanted to pick him up, I would have rescued him from Serbia instead of tipping you off.”

Mycroft slowly turned his head and stared at him: _Not lying!_ “You… the information came from you? I got the information–”

“From a double agent in the area, who passed it through the contacts in Kiev.” Jim smiled without opening his eyes. “In actuality your double agent–the one who died four months later in a suspicious accident?–was just another of my identities… It’s all a shell game.”

Mycroft was shaken. “I… had no idea.”

“Good.”

Eventually Mycroft sighed, “I need a shower. To get a shower, I have to get out of this chair–also, if I sleep in this chair I will hurt my back.”

“You think I need to know this?”

“Ah, no… I just routinely tell myself these things when the temptation to sleep in a chair seems overwhelming.”

“Get a big sniper–and keep him away from Sherlock, I suppose. I usually had Tiger pick me up, but he’s gone off with Sherly.” Jim sighed and got up out of his chair, stretching and rotating his neck.

“It always hurt my neck to watch you do that,” Mycroft muttered.

“Habit…” Jim raised an eyebrow. “One of the few things I wasn’t doing to annoy you…”

They both went off to their rooms, which meant they more or less had to walk together since they were adjoining.

Mycroft paused at his door, and looked thoughtfully over at Jim. “Thank you… Sherlock almost didn’t survive Serbia–any later and...”

Jim just nodded and went into his room.

Mycroft sighed and got out of his clothing, wrapped himself in a bathrobe, and walked slowly down to the shower…

…only to interrupt Jim, in HIS bathrobe, about to turn on the shower. _Of course_.

“This is going to continue being terribly awkward, isn’t it?” Mycroft sighed.

Jim just stood there and stared at him for a while. “Probably,” he said finally. He dragged a hand over his eyes, letting his robe fall open. _No point, really_. “Look, we’ve both seen each other naked–I expect you saw a good bit more of me before I woke up, not even counting interrogation–if we keep trying to dance around this, it’s going to get worse.”

“I’m… not comfortable undressed,” Mycroft admitted.

Jim shrugged and dropped the robe; Mycroft couldn’t quite stop himself from cataloging the scars. “I could tell.” Jim shrugged, “It’s your armor–in my case it’s my disguise–always dress the part.”

Jim adjusted the shower and stepped in, keeping his head clear of the spray.

Not for the first time, Mycroft regretted his analysis: _Waterboarding, and they’d always sprayed his face when they washed him down…_ He gritted his teeth and hung up his robe. Forcing his mind as blank as he could, he stepped in–the shower was enormous, after all.

Jim tensed briefly. “Decided to join me?”

“You… already proved you wouldn’t… take advantage–even drugged.”

“I’m a killer, not a rapist.”

“A surprising number of people,” Mycroft said, looking pointedly at the shower wall–and trying to ignore the restraint points–“don’t know what they are until faced with temptation.”

Jim washed his hair quickly and stepped out. Mycroft was relieved that he’d never apparently looked, or even paid attention–false, of course, but he didn’t gawk at least.

Jim dried himself off briskly and put his robe back on.

“That concerns you?”

“I...” Mycroft took several deep breaths and tried to figure out how to respond; he settled for, “Yes, it concerns me.”

“Don’t be alone with your interrogators, then,” Jim said calmly and started to walk out…

He heard Mycroft inhale sharply, “That… threats are… threats are typical–they wouldn’t have carried through.”

Jim turned and looked at him. _Damn if he doesn’t look sincere… and a bit pale, come to that…_ “Do you mean to tell me you honestly have no idea?”

What little color Mycroft had left his face and he started to fall; Jim moved to keep him from crashing into the tile and they collapsed in a tumbled heap.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discussions of past traumas and coping ...

“Mycroft, if I have to go get Tiger to haul you out of a bathroom… then I’ll have to explain why we are both naked and soggy and why I know you are collapsed in the shower…” Jim frowned, “Also, my leg is under you and falling asleep.”

“Apologies,” Mycroft said by reflex, trying to get up; he ended up with his hand on Jim’s crotch. He yanked it back, which ended up causing him to lose his balance and fall heavily against the tile–again. “Ow.”

Jim snickered, “Yeah, you were a tease when you were drugged, too.”

“I didn’t intend to–”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft, it was a JOKE…” Jim got up, testing his leg cautiously. He turned off the water and braced against the grab bar. “Come on...” He held out a hand.

“Will that support…?”

“The entire house is rigged for BDSM–I expect it’s rated for a bit more enthusiasm than ‘get up off the floor’,” Jim said drily. Mycroft had to concede the point and, with Jim’s help, was back on his feet.

“Do you bruise easily?” Jim asked thoughtfully. “Because you smacked the tile…”

“Sadly? Yes.”

“Go back to your room–I’ll go get ice packs,” Jim sighed.

“Why… why are you being…” _reasonable, nice… human…_

Jim paused and then said, “I thought you were enjoying the show, if you recall.”

“Yes? I mean no, I wasn’t–I hated it–but I remember you thought so.”

“You don’t know ME as well as you thought, either.” Jim shrugged and wrapped his robe around himself and walked out.

Mycroft made his way slowly to his room, trying desperately to make sense of any of this–he wasn’t having much luck.

 _Why the hell am I being nice to him?_ Jim wondered. He could hear Sherlock’s voice as he went down the stairs: he was cursing Sebastian out in Italian, telling him to fuck him harder. _Well, at least two of us are having fun._ Jim got down to the kitchen and got out the ice packs. As he went back upstairs he heard Sebastian’s voice and… _I am NOT jealous._

He walked into the room that should have been Sebie’s to find Mycroft inspecting a few red splotches on his skin in the mirror.

“Sherlock and Sebastian are having a good time.” Jim sounded bitter, and then continued, “I have no idea why your prat of a younger brother ever makes digs about your weight.” Jim tossed the ice packs onto the bed. “You’re fine–even in good shape, for someone who works a desk.”

Mycroft looked over–Jim was remarkably unconcerned about nudity: he had barely bothered to tie the robe shut–“I was rather chubby as a child,” Mycroft sighed, “and as a young adult… and then…”

Jim looked at Mycroft clutching his robe around his dignity. “I’ve seen it all, as you may recall–no need to be shy.”

Mycroft had to admit that was true. He walked over to get the ice packs and held them awkwardly against his bruises.

“Oh for…” Jim stalked over. “Lie down on your side.”

Mycroft looked at Jim and for just a flickering moment Jim saw… _was that fear? No, not quite…_ but then it was gone, and Mycroft lay down. Jim started putting ice packs in place.

“Personal experience with rape, Iceman?” Jim asked quietly as he tried to find a way to hold an ice pack in place. Mycroft was silent for a while and Jim thought he wouldn’t answer–which was answer enough–but then…

“I had a disastrous experience with field work,” Mycroft answered finally. “When I got back I was… rather happily assigned to a desk as an analyst. I regained a lot of my weight.”

“Oh, defense mechanism,” Jim said as casually as if it didn’t matter.

“Yes. Obviously. My… brother just knew that it was one of the things he could…”

“One of the few things he could actually get to you with, because you were usually better at everything?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft found himself relaxing, despite his misgivings. Jim hadn’t gone further than Mycroft had allowed even when they were both drugged senseless, and he wasn’t doing anything now.

“Explains the clothes,” Jim finally said with a faint shrug.

“What?”

“Why you are so uncomfortable out of your clothes; why your clothes are armor; why you even dress in so many layers: fairly typical. You never got counseling or anything, did you?”

“No. Or rather, they tried to send me to a counselor and I would have better luck talking to an actual goldfish.”

“Well, twenty minutes on, twenty off,” Jim waved at the ice packs, “and don’t let yourself get frostbitten or anything.”

“You aren’t going to…”

“To what?” Jim arched an eyebrow.

“Harass me over–”

“Being raped? Good God, Mycroft, what do you think of me?” Jim looked honestly appalled. “I’m going to give you hell for not supervising your people, and not being responsible about what happened to me, sure, but… honestly? You think I’m going to give YOU a hard time because YOU were mistreated?”

“People do.”

“People are idiots,” Jim sniffed. “I’m not.”

“No, the one thing I always knew was that you were clever.” Mycroft smiled faintly and then sighed, “I… I knew threats were used, in… when we had you. It is, as I said, typical. You didn’t seem bothered.”

“One, I’m a fabulous actor. Two, it didn’t bother me in the slightest, I just flirted back and made innuendos–”

“Yes, I recall.” Mycroft hesitated and then admitted, “One of the interrogators quit over that.”

“Is that why? I’d wondered.” Jim shrugged. “A couple of the boys decided to ‘take me up on it’ or call my bluff, I guess…”

“I… I had no idea.”

Jim laughed, “Just beatings and electroshock, right.”

“Don’t misunderstand me: I would do anything it took to protect my brother, and nearly that to get the terrorist information, but... I certainly would not have had you raped… and if I somehow had…” Mycroft shuddered. “I would have had you killed after. I certainly would have expected the escalation, if I had known.”

“Eh, it’s not that big a deal to me–I just arranged to have one of them killed later.”

“Not that…” Mycroft stared at him, and then couldn’t help but ask, “Why… and why only one of them?”

Jim hesitated and then shrugged, “Honestly? Been dealing with crap like that since I was a kid; I suppose I just roll with it now, although I’ve been too powerful the last decade or so for most people to try it.” Jim watched Mycroft’s eyes widen and grinned, “Like I said Iceman, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“A…” _child? Dear God._ “No, I suppose not.”

“As to why only one of them? He was rude, and rough, and basically putting me down for personal kicks. The other two? Well, one of them was strictly business–I don’t think he even enjoyed it–and the third was… I THINK he honestly thought he was taking me up on interest? It’s hard to tell. Like you said, a lot of people lie to themselves.”

Mycroft lay quietly and thought about how poorly he reacted to his own assault, and Jim’s casual response. “You must think me a coward, then.”

Jim stared at him. “I think you’re a coward, Mycroft, but not because of that.”

“What?”

“You think you’re weak or something because being raped got to you?”

Mycroft gritted his teeth, “You certainly discuss it casually.”

“We all have our own coping mechanisms, Mycroft. I take things casually and play with shocking people–I suspect a therapist would have some interesting things to say about it.” He shrugged. “You bottle things up and repress them and sneer about them. So?”

“Play with shocking…” Mycroft snorted, “I suppose that’s one way to describe terrorist activities and murder.”

“I consult, Mycroft,” Jim retorted. “I actually disrupted my business a lot to take on all those petty murders for Sherlock–murder isn’t my usual thing, and those were cheap cases. Seriously, I usually handle things at a much higher level.”

Mycroft was terribly relieved to change topics and dug into it with relish, “You certainly seemed to be busy enough with terror plots and murder; that was all for Sherlock’s benefit?”

“Well, he didn’t investigate insider trading, art forgery, or any of the stuff that makes REAL money–he investigated murders, so I had to focus on murders.” Jim looked at him, “Come on, Mycroft, seriously? Public explosions and all that drama?”

“All to get my brother’s attention?”

“I was flirting with Sherly, you know.” Jim shrugged, “He liked it.”

“Sadly, yes. He likes heroin, too.” Mycroft sighed, “Equally bad for him.”

Jim got quiet for a while.

“Maybe I would have been bad for him: I can see us both feeding into each other’s problems.”

Mycroft heard the familiar sound of genuine self-loathing. “You… are not, as has been said, what I thought you were.” Mycroft cleared his throat and wished he had something besides an ice pack to keep his hands busy. “Just because you and Sherlock would have been mutually destructive, doesn’t mean there are not good options out there for you both…”

Jim smiled faintly, “No, you aren’t what I thought you were…” Jim focused on moving an ice pack back into place and trying to hold it in position with Mycroft’s robe. “I thought for a while I could make it work with Seb, but…” He shook his head. “Sebie is a good man, really. I’m… very fond of him. He likes it rougher than I do, though; being gentle with me was… was him being considerate.”

Mycroft thought about it. “Apparently, Sherlock is a good partner for him then, although frankly I prefer not to know about my brother’s personal life.” Mycroft muttered, “I didn’t used to have to think about it.”

“Well, if Sherly was the Virgin back in the day he certainly was over it by the ‘wedding’,” Jim grumbled.

“He wasn’t.” Mycroft tried to wave a hand and had to grab back at the ice bag. “But he was never… errr… It wasn’t something he sought out, or seemed interested in usually–except as an experiment–until he met your sniper.”

“Hmmm… You?”

“What?”

“Did your being assaulted ruin your interest?”

“I should be upset at you for asking.”

“But you aren’t, because I’m neither blaming you nor pitying you, just trying to understand.” Jim shrugged. “Did it?”

“I couldn’t… I was primarily interested in men, before.” Mycroft turned carefully to lie so that he could see Jim’s expression: _No, not malice… curiosity, certainly, but no malice._

“Ah? So… no men after, but women didn’t trigger the same PTSD?”

“I hadn’t thought of it as Post Traumatic Stress,” Mycroft mused, “but I suppose you are correct. When I sought out companionship after that I chose women–if I did at all… My needs are not high.”

“Not normally a high libido, then,” Jim nodded. “Mine is through the roof, frankly.”

“What?” Mycroft found himself tensing involuntarily, and then forced himself to relax. _Jim had certainly been rather more experienced…_ A memory of exactly how much he’d enjoyed himself under the drugs came back to him and he whimpered involuntarily and then winced, waiting for the snide remark.

“That sounded more like an interested noise than an upset one?” Jim asked curiously.

Mycroft gritted his teeth, “Undoubtedly due to the drug, I enjoyed myself immensely.”

“I… did… and didn’t,” Jim said thoughtfully, moving an ice pack back into place. “It was fun, and it was… I was fascinated to find out that you weren’t what I thought… and I admit I rarely have an opportunity to be around a peer–if you know what I mean–but the desperation and…” he tilted his head, “the fact that nothing relieved the need for very long? That was horrible.” Jim paused. “Also, honestly my dick hurt by the end of it all.”

Mycroft laughed despite himself–Jim did indeed just ‘say things’, possibly to shock–“Given that you were still… uh… yes, well, that you were more heavily drugged, I can’t say I am surprised.” He made a face. “The amount of… residue… on me was disgusting.”

“Well, NORMALLY people clean up afterwards,” Jim snickered, “but I passed out after. I can’t say I haven’t decided that getting out of bed to go wash up was too much trouble–on other occasions, though.”

Mycroft shuddered, “Ugh… No.”

Jim grinned wickedly, “So… these bad actors in your past?”

“What about them?”

“Given that you weren’t flinching over it when I did it–none of them bottomed or gave you a blow job, I expect?”

“Certainly not…” And then Jim watched Mycroft’s pupils dilate and his face flush as he thought about drugged punch and hotel rooms.

“You seemed to enjoy the one I started with…” Jim grinned down at him.

“Why…” Mycroft’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Why would you be bringing that up?”

“Oh, I suspect more than one thing is ‘up’ Mycroft…’ Jim snickered. “But I’m not going to touch you without permission.” He leaned down and lowered his voice to a breath in Mycroft’s ear, “But I’m going to go back to my room and jerk off. You just let me know if you want to try it again without benefit of being… punch drunk.”

And Jim walked through the connecting door back to his room and closed it, before Mycroft could get his breath back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thoughts...  
> NOTE: in order to prevent a HUGE block of Italics, once we move into Mycroft and Jim's thoughts i switch- italics are "real world" and regular text is thoughts.

Sebastian caught Sherlock’s eyes during a class break and they stepped aside; neither Jim nor Mycroft appeared to pay attention.

“What the HELL happened?” Sebastian whispered.

“I have no idea. Mycroft said he fell in the shower last night; he’s bruised, but he insisted it was an accident that had nothing to do with Jim, and he’s not acting like Jim… hurt him,” Sherlock replied.

“They’re doing the loaf shaping and stuff or I would think they were really out of it.”

“Well… Mycroft went into HIS mind palace on route in and stayed there. What you see is… autopilot. It’s why he is simply following the instructor…” Sherlock trailed off and stared. “So is Jim! He’s not doing any variation on anything… is he?”

Sebastian blinked–a lot. “No… No, he’s not… He’s just… following the teacher. Whatever happened… they’re BOTH thinking about things hard enough to be noticeable,” Sebastian shifted uneasily. “You said Mycroft was bruised? I didn’t hear any yelling…”

“Would we have heard any?” Sherlock retorted. “We were yelling ourselves.”

“Point.” Sebastian chewed on his lip. “If he felt threatened…”

“We… agreed they need to settle things between them.” Sherlock swallowed and forced his shoulders back. “We just… have to trust them to… work things out.”

~

_Mycroft got up, took pain medication, dressed in his uncomfortably casual clothing–packing a suit in case they went straight to dinner this time–and ate a quick breakfast downstairs. He vaguely recalled telling Sherlock that he had slipped in the shower… he was thinking._

I obviously haven’t dealt with my own trauma as well as I thought. It’s shaped more of my habits than I realized if it can be so easily discerned once Jim had enough clues. God, that mission was a disaster: poor intelligence, an information leak, capture… _Mycroft shuddered–_ boules, loafs, baguettes _–then began to lock the mission behind its door in his memories again and paused…_

I’ll have to find a better way of dealing with it than bottling it up and sneering at people.

_Mycroft floured his hands and shaped a loaf and shuddered at the sensation so much like flesh under his hands._

Layers of clothing…

Fat…

Folders of paper, briefcases, desks…

Means of keeping people away, keeping them from seeing me as attractive, as touchable–approachable–with the added issue of food being a comfort…

I never did anything with men again, after; not even attractive men–men I might have considered before. They’re still controlling my life…

 _The shock made him miss the end of the kneading stroke and his hands hit the table_. _He pointedly ignored Sherlock’s worried look and went back to thinking._

It… it just makes SENSE to always have a weapon handy, doesn’t it? And it gives me something to keep my hands busy–like my pocket watch, despite never needing it–something to fiddle with, something to look at; it doesn’t mean I’m still frightened, does it? I am still frightened; otherwise I wouldn’t let it rule my life.

Jim… Jim said his casual speech and attempts to shock were a defense mechanism of his own. Instead of bottling things up and pushing it away he… he waved it like a red flag, making light of it, making it sound trivial. Even his mentions of being assaulted, of being tortured… all apparently treated with utter disregard or flaunted, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a trauma…

He flirted and was overtly sexual as a form of deflection, then… was his flirtation with me, his offers of sex… genuine? Diversion? Both?

Both, probably.

Scoring the loaf looks entirely too much like whip marks and knife wounds.

It must be painful for Jim to have his lover become Sherlock’s lover, even if he doesn’t show it… Of course he doesn’t show it: he treats it casually, as if it’s nothing… that’s how he does things. For him to admit that it hurt… Was he that badly off? Or… did he trust me enough to let his guard down, because I let him go when I could have hurt him?

I trust him because he could have raped me– hurt me– and he didn’t… He hasn’t even been lewd, or aggressive at me, except for an offer of sex at the end of the night… and how much had our conversation unsettled him by that point? Deflection, definitely… but he said his libido was very high? That seemed truthful.

Sebastian being gentle with him was being considerate of Jim… Jim thinking I was a sadist, that I’d LIKED watching him hurt… Jim… likes it gentler? But they had restraints… and Sebastian had booked a BDSM facility…?

*

“Mycroft…” Sherlock tapped him three times on the hand, an old, old signal that he needed to come up…

“Yes?” Mycroft blinked a few times and reoriented in place and time: class was over; he filed the data away for later. “Dinner?”

Sherlock looked relieved. “We had reservations for a casual restaurant…”

“I’ll change into my suit,” Mycroft nodded and went to change.

~

_Jim put his character on–a bit like Jim from IT, and a bit of investment broker burned out and taking up baking–and let the kneading and shaping become a routine to keep his body and hands busy while his mind spun away elsewhere…_

The Iceman was a thin shell of ice after all. Caring is not an advantage–and he cared! He cared too much, he had a soft heart under all that and they put too heavy a load on him too young and he couldn’t bear it so he walled himself off like a princess in a tower like the Ice Queen, like a fairy tale, and it’s MYCROFT who needed rescuing, not Euros and not Sherlock, but no one is going to rescue him because they think he’s the dragon and he’s not, and he was a prisoner behind the glass watching them hurt me and hurting and no way to escape.

_The dough should be elastic and glossy…_

Sherlock, hair, and I want to dig my hands into it and he and Sebastian and fuck me harder and he loves me, I know he loves me, but I’m not what he needs and I can’t be and he is boisterous loud and hunter and he wants to pursue and to chase and to bite and I want to be wooed and to touch and to be coaxed and admired and petted and he wants to pull Sherlock’s hair–and who doesn’t?–and those curls and that voice, but he wants it rougher and active and feeling and need screaming through him and addiction and endorphins and of course it’s like heroin.

_Shape the dough into two…_

Two people, only two people who could destroy me and didn’t and because I didn’t rape him? But everyone is after everyone and it’s kill or be killed, but he isn’t afraid of dying, none of us are, he’s afraid of being hurt so he tried to avoid it and avoid touch and avoid sex and you can’t do that because monkey’s die of touch starvation and we’re monkeys and I run into the pain and laugh at it and I’ve turned sex into a tool and I haven’t been close to anyone in so very long because sex is a weapon and an act and a role and can’t touch me and I want to be touched and I cant.

*

Jim felt someone touch him and he started to reach for a knife…

“Jim?” Sebastian said quietly. “We need to leave to get to dinner…”

Jim stared blankly at him and let himself be taken off to wash up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff, past trauma, discussion and never give Jim a bowl of fruit.

They ate at a local restaurant: it was small and charming, and the food was extremely good.

“I admit to being surprised by the quality,” Mycroft commented. It was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t selecting his meal.

“The big famous places are usually overrated,” Jim commented idly. “A lot of the less well known areas have fantastic food.”

Sherlock had no idea whether to comment or not, but Sebastian was being quiet so Sherlock simply nodded and enjoyed his meal.

Once they got back to the house, Sebastian rather pointedly stated, “I just spent the day leaning more about bread than I ever wanted to know, so if you don’t need me? I figured I’d take Sherlock down to the basement.”

“Hmm…” Jim waved a hand distractedly, which both of them took as their cue to leave.

Mycroft went into the kitchen and finally came back with a small bowl of fruit. “There isn’t much in the way of snacks unless you feel like making popcorn.” He hesitated. “It generally gets caught in my teeth, so I avoid it. I did get a bowl of fruit.”

Jim blinked at him a few times and looked at the bowl of fruit. “You know, from anyone else…”

Mycroft frowned in confusion. “What?”

“God, you are SO straight it’s scary…”

Mycroft’s confusion deepened and he developed what Jim thought were adorable little wrinkles between his eyebrows. “I believe I already admitted that I was bisexual…”

Jim chuckled, “Not what I meant… I meant that anyone else presenting a bowl of cherries, apples, and bananas would be being suggestive; you probably didn’t even think about it.”

Mycroft slowly looked down at the bowl and blotchy color started spreading up from his neck. “Errr… ah… no.”

Jim reached out and instead of taking an apple as Mycroft expected, he pulled a cherry out of the bowl. He slowly lowered it to his lips and held it there, balanced on his mouth, his tongue making little experimental swipes at it.

Mycroft froze, unable to think of a reaction.

Still holding it over his tipped-back head, Jim casually bit into it, the juice staining his lips red.

Mycroft felt suddenly overheated.

Jim dropped the remains into his mouth and made little happy noises.

Mycroft contemplated heading for a cold shower– _don’t run, walk away with dignity…_

Jim reached up and pulled a cherry stem out of his mouth: it was tied in a knot.

Mycroft’s knees suddenly went out from under him and he collapsed onto the chair; Jim caught the bowl before it fell.

Jim just smirked at him. Mycroft ended up taking out his handkerchief and trying to regain his aplomb.

“That was… lewd.”

“That was the point.” Jim snickered, “God, Mycroft, loosen UP a little.”

“Given that you stated that one of my employees may have assaulted you because he believed you were interested… I don’t think that would be wise…” Mycroft’s tie felt entirely too tight.

Jim stopped, and looked at the cherry stem. “Oh.” He picked at it quietly for a moment. “I… didn’t mean to put you in that position, Mycroft, honestly. I just…”

“It is as you have said, a defense mechanism… but I have no wish to be party to–”

“You wouldn’t be.”

Mycroft blinked several times. “Pardon?”

“Yeah, I guess I just fall back on it… and it rattles you and… I get to see a real reaction from you instead of ice, you know?”

Mycroft sighed, “I… cannot be certain if you are, in fact, making an offer… if you are trying to drive me away… or both, but its… disconcerting.”

“Right now… well, I don’t NEED to put up with anything I don’t want to. I mean… if you tried something I didn’t want to deal with, I wouldn’t have to–it isn’t like prison.” He looked at Mycroft. “In interrogation… as long as I pretended to be alright with it they didn’t have any way of getting to me. Like the guy who was all business about it? He thought I had fun… so he didn’t get what he wanted and he won’t do it again. This… I wouldn’t have to do anything with you...”

Mycroft looked off at nothing in particular. “Perhaps if I had been able to feign some amount of enjoyment it wouldn’t be… it wouldn’t have troubled me as much.”

“Our coping methods are different.” Jim sighed. “Doesn’t mean mine would work for you… I mean… you DID at least have some good relationships and sex before and after, right? You said you did…”

“I don’t have your… experience,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “but yes… I did.”

“My experience…” Jim laughed and it sounded a bit dark. “No, no I don’t think you do. Can I ask you a question, Mycroft? It's a bit personal.”

“I think we went beyond ‘a bit personal’ some time ago. Go ahead: ..I don't promise to answer, however.”

“How many people have you had sex with because you actually wanted to?”

Mycroft frowned, “I'm not certain I understand your question?”

“Not force, not a job, not playing a role, not to get something… and not drugged.” Jim waved a hand. “Just… because you wanted to… or you liked them… or… you were curious maybe.”

 _Oh…_ He considered and ruled out two: _there had been ulterior motives, after all._ “Perhaps five? I'm not… I'm not interested much, as I said. Why?”

Jim smiled tiredly, “In my case, it's two.”

Mycroft stared at him as his mind processed the conditions Jim had stated: _Not forced, not a job, not playing a role, not to get something, and not drugged… two?!_ He cleared his throat. “A… far smaller number than I would expect…”

“Sebastian is the second one… the only other one died a long time ago–lifestyle and risks, you know.”

“No… I… wouldn’t have… You’re so confident! I would expect you could have…”

Jim smirked at him, “Could have anyone I want?”

“Well, yes… basically.”

“How many people can I trust that far? How much of my life is playing a role, or working to get something, or pretending to be interested to save my skin–or my reputation?”

Mycroft looked at him, considering. _By his own statement, he had pretended to interest in interrogation, and further when the interrogators…_ Mycroft made a note to have them investigated and shut it away behind a door in his mind for later. “I… How many… Never mind.”

Jim popped another cherry into his mouth–he didn’t play with it this time, but the juice stained his mouth and teeth red as he spoke. “How many people have I had sex with that didn’t meet that criteria?”

“Yes. I apologize; it’s an intolerably rude question.”

“Sauce for the goose, Mycroft: how many have you?”

Mycroft answered rather tersely, “Nine.”

Jim stared at him in shock. “Oh… Oh, I… I thought it would be, like... a couple–plus me, because we were both drugged.”

“I am fairly certain it’s nine, and while I include you in the number by your own criteria… you were … that situation was rather pleasant–except for being discovered by my staff, of course.” _Sticky fluids, being found, people looking at him… knowing…_ Mycroft tried to force older, even less pleasant memories away.

Jim smiled, “Yeah, you were fun. I bet you’d be more fun sober…. assuming you could loosen up enough to even consider it.” _And you didn’t hurt me._

Mycroft was shivering faintly. _Mold and damp, voices and hands, pain, and never being clean again, ever_... He was snapped back to the present by a weight in his lap and arms around his neck. “You were shivering,” Jim said quietly into his ear.

Mycroft wanted to not want this… but he put his arms around the man anyway: it helped. Jim didn’t do anything except lean into him and rest his arms across Mycroft’s shoulders: he was warm. Slowly, Mycroft brought his breathing under control again.

“Better?”

“Yes… thank you.” Mycroft didn’t open his eyes. _God, this was mortifying_.

Jim snuggled in against his neck more closely–it was almost disturbingly intimate, but comforting nonetheless.

“You asked about how many people I’d had sex with that weren’t my idea of fun?”

“It was a very rude question…” Mycroft tried to turn his head away but Jim simply pressed in closer.

“Well… even if I discount the ones where I was manipulating them–because I’m very good in bed, and it works–and don’t count the ones where I was just playing a role where it would have raised questions if I didn’t… I’m still left with a number too high to count.”

Mycroft tried to look at the man but he was nestled practically under Mycroft’s chin and into his neck and all he could do was wrap his arms around him more tightly. “That’s… rather dreadful… I’m not–”

“I don’t want to be here when Sebastian and Sherlock finally drag themselves up from the basement, do you?” Jim asked abruptly.

“Ah… No… No, I do not.”

“You’re probably right and I just… it’s just reflex to flirt and rattle people when I get… unsettled,” Jim said into Mycroft’s neck. “And it’s probably not a great idea to take me up on it. But I would normally end up in bed with a big, strong sniper to hold me and keep all those unpleasant memories away. Do you think maybe having someone to curl up with would be helpful for you?”

“…I have no idea,” Mycroft admitted. “I suppose it could be tried…” Mycroft forced a bit of humor into his voice, “however, I suspect Sebastian isn’t my type.”

Jim jerked in his arms and then started laughing. Eventually he sat back and took Mycroft’s face in his hands, “Thank you.” He kissed him gently and chastely on the lips. “I needed the laugh.”

“I suspect we both did,” Mycroft admitted. “However, if you were serious…?”

“Yeah?”

“Then we should probably get some sleep: we have a rather long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Jim smirked wickedly, “What do you mean? It’s my day!” He slid off Mycroft’s lap and helped pull Mycroft up from the chair.

Mycroft blinked a lot. “Your day?”

Jim just smirked, “Tarts!”

Mycroft and Jim snickered all the way to the rooms.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the problem when people talk to each other (who really need to talk to each other) is that a lot of the information is... well difficult.  
> TW for past child abuse/past non con discussions (not in detail)

Jim woke up several times thinking that Sebastian had come back and gotten into bed with him–an understandable mistake, since Mycroft was tall. _Sebastian didn’t wear ridiculous pajamas, though._ He had been surprised that Mycroft slept fully dressed, but then it made sense: _I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised–his armor carrying over to bedtime._

Mycroft woke up panicking several times from someone being in bed with him–but he wasn’t in pain, and the bed was comfortable, and he wasn’t touching bare skin… _Oh. Jim._ It was odd to think that realizing Moriarty was in bed with him was comforting–safe. Jim slept in silk–apparently he usually slept in something like silk boxer shorts, but he had very courteously gone to change into silk pajamas–or, as he called it, ‘loungewear’ after seeing Mycroft’s usual bedclothes. Sadly, the almost skin-like texture was rather off-putting.

“I make it a point to never be underdressed compared to anyone…” he’d snickered after he came back in.

Mycroft couldn’t help but compare his flannels to Jim’s silks–it was rather funny.

Jim lay quietly in the morning, waiting for Mycroft to wake up. He couldn’t help but analyze things any more than Mycroft could, really: _Mycroft didn’t like the feel of my silks–his hands recoiled away from my pajamas; Mycroft slept in soft and slightly fuzzy flannel; Mycroft tended to pull and wrap the covers around himself for comfort; Mycroft woke up in a panic if he was touched in certain areas…_

_In contrast, Mycroft seemed to like the smell of my hair–odd, the things you find out._

Mycroft’s alarm went off quietly and he started to roll over to get it, only to almost roll onto Jim. “Oh! My–my apologies!” Mycroft almost stuttered and blinked a bit.

“It’s alright,” Jim reached out and turned the alarm off. “Woke up a few minutes ago, but didn’t want to get out of bed.”

“A chronic issue with me,” Mycroft almost mumbled. “My brother always derided my laziness.”

“Your brother is an ass,” Jim commented, yawning. “Just because you don’t go running all over London like a hyperactive terrier doesn’t mean you’re lazy.”

“…isn’t ‘hyperactive’ and ‘terrier’ rather redundant?”

Jim grinned, “Could be. I only know the one I knew growing up was…” He tilted his head back and made a surprisingly realistic sounding yapping noise.

“An unexpected talent…”

“Really? Unexpected?” Jim laughed. “I figured it went along with doing accents and voices.”

“You do a rather convincing job of that, indeed… I simply never thought of terrier as a dialect…” Mycroft looked very solemn but his eyes crinkled just a touch.

“Good God, Mycroft you have a rather dry wit! I might start to wonder how I missed it.” Jim shrugged, “I think I always just assumed you were serious all the time except for sarcasm–and most of that I heard was rather… er…”

“Sarcastic?”

Jim grinned, “Well, yeah.”

“My brother and I learned barbed commentary as an art form rather young.”

“I prefer your straight man routine–it’s funnier.”

“I prefer your sense of humor when it isn’t about explosions and gunfire, so I suppose we are even.”

Jim smirked on their way to the shower, “But… but explosions and gunfire are traditional!”

“Traditional for whom?”

Jim paused and started adjusting the temperature of the shower. “Most of the UK, I suspect.”

In the driest voice possible Mycroft drawled, “Oh certainly not: we’re such a peaceable and dignified people…”

Jim laughed so hard Mycroft had to take over setting up the shower–and had to work around him to do it.

“Well… maybe before we started importing tea? All that caffeine?” Jim laughed and got into the shower.

Mycroft couldn’t help but hesitate before removing his robe, but replied, “Ah, certainly… caffeine overdose–explains everything…” then he waited until Jim was trying to rinse off his hair, “especially the calm and settled nature of the members of the United Kingdom before the tea imports… like Scotland.”

Mycroft stepped over Jim in the shower–he’d slid down the wall holding his ribs, not fallen–and brushed his teeth.

When Jim finally managed to get up, turn off the water, and step out he glared at Mycroft in mock outrage. “How do you manage to smirk while brushing your teeth?”

“Native talent.”

Jim muttered darkly about Englishmen. Mycroft snickered.

~

Sebastian seemed more than a little off when Sherlock caught up to him from breakfast, but he just said something about bad night’s sleep. Sherlock dropped it immediately; John often enough had a bad night’s sleep.

“I wasn’t too rough on you, though, was I?” Sebastian asked him worriedly as he put down breakfast.

Sherlock snorted and was going to leave it at that, but Sebastian looked endearingly concerned. “No, you were fine–I just bruise easily in a few spots, as you well know!” Sherlock was sipping his cooling cup when Mycroft and Jim came down at the same time.

_They both seemed in a rather good mood, and over the last couple of days the circles under Mycroft’s eyes had lessened–they had almost vanished overnight. Even Jim’s normally rather deep-set eyes–which had looked very shadowed when he arrived–looked livelier. Hmmm… but no… there was none of the reaction one would expect from sex…_

Sebastian, however, seemed to withdraw even more, and hurried to get their breakfast.

“I’m glad you got some sleep,” Sebastian said quietly as he put down Jim’s cup.

Jim looked oddly pained for a moment. “Yes, well… I managed.” He sipped quietly and toyed with his food, then said, “I assume one of the times I woke up was you opening the connecting door?”

“Ah…” Sebastian fidgeted, “probably. I went up to check on you.”

Mycroft was flushing that oddly blotchy color. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well, you didn’t have sex.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for the insanely awkward morning, both of you.”

Sherlock stared at him for a while. “Why on… Why would sleeping–actually sleeping, not sex–with someone be…” Suddenly he smirked, “Oh. Sentiment.”

Jim stared intently at Sherlock, “Dear God you DO smirk the same! How did I not notice?”

“What?”

“You two… you have identical smirks–allowing for differences in your features.”

“Expressions tend to develop from the people you spend the most time around,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Sherly… I get it, I do… Mycroft drummed it into your head that you were a sociopath, and tried to discourage you from having any emotional attachments–”

“What?” Mycroft stared at him.

“Mycroft discouraged attachments and caring, certainly… but I–”

“I simply didn’t want you getting hurt!” Mycroft protested.

Jim tapped his cup with his spoon. “Delightful. Maybe you two should stay home and chat while I learn about making tarts… You two need to talk, you know.”

“I fail to see why?” Mycroft sputtered.

“I think we’ve gotten along better the less we speak, actually,” Sherlock snorted.

“Yeah, you both are so messed up… Look Sherlock, can I point out that Mycroft didn’t want you to get close to anyone but him because he was terrified people would hurt you?”

“I believe he said that,” Sherlock said drily.

“Jim…” Mycroft felt a migraine bearing down on him and closed his eyes.

Jim shrugged, “I was raped repeatedly by a family member and then by others. I learned early that wanting affection from people is a trap… Mycroft just didn’t want you to go through that.” Jim stirred his coffee and tried to ignore the shocked look from Sebastian.

Mycroft made an unhappy noise and curled further around his tea. _Jim? How did he know? Voices telling him to be a man: never cry, never be weak._

Sherlock stared at Jim, and then slowly, very slowly, looked over at Mycroft. “You… didn’t want… You thought I would be safer if…” Very slowly, Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down. “Oh.”

“’Oh’ what?” Mycroft said tiredly unable to open his eyes, old memories scratching at their files and their locked doors… the pounding in his head becoming nearly unbearable.

“I thought you were ashamed of me for it,” Sherlock said with that eerie analytical calmness that made so many people believe that he was a sociopath. “I thought that was why you were always telling me…”

Sherlock tilted his head and looked thoughtfully over at Jim. “You think he was trying to keep me from being raped?”

“Hurt… certainly.” Jim shrugged. “I admit I assume the details…”

Mycroft managed to grit out, “This is hardly a reasonable discussion…”

“It certainly is!” Jim snorted. “Sherly is hurting you and probably doesn’t even realize it!”

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“Throwing his comments about sentiment back in his face…” Jim poked the spoon at Sherlock across the counter.

Sebastian tried to touch Jim on the shoulder; Jim just shook him off.

“Mycroft is trying to protect you–okay, he’s doing a shitty job of it, but he’s trying–”

Mycroft tried to protest; Sherlock just looked off at nothing much. “I suppose so. I have no idea what he was trying to protect me from at that age; my memories are… unreliable.”

“…you deleted things–changed them.” Mycroft forced the words out past the vice grip around his head.

“Oh, for…!” Jim stood up. “Sebastian! I have tart lessons to get to… these two need to stay here and talk–lock them in a room together or something!”

“Uh… I had…I’m sorry?” Sebastian gulped. _God, this was horrible, why had he thought this was a good idea, why?_ “I didn’t know… I thought you’d been okay before…”

Sherlock looked very slowly back and forth between Jim and Mycroft–ignoring the argument between Jim and Sebastian as unimportant. “That… makes sense.”

“There’s no point in making a fuss about it, Sebie! It was before I even met you!” Jim had just finished yelling, and Sebastian was trying to find the right words to reply, so Sherlock’s calm and slightly puzzled voice was easily heard.

“I thought you were ashamed of me for the sex–that you were blaming me for wanting it or asking for it… like he did.”


	9. Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts, All on a summer's day; The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts, And took them clean away.
> 
> in which Jim is GOING TO ENJOY CLASS!

Mycroft, Jim realized, was about to begin an angst-ridden speech about his intentions–he could almost hear it starting.

“No!” Jim snapped. Everyone looked over at him in varying degrees of alarm or shock. “We are NOT having this discussion right now… or at least I’m not! You two can stay here and talk, but Sebie is driving me to class.”

Mycroft sputtered, “My brother just told me that I should have–”

“Should have known, should have done something, should have fixed it, should have been forty-five when you were barely fourteen–LALALALA can’t hear you, Mycroft!” Jim glared at him. “You were a KID. What, do you think I should have started killing my rapists any earlier than Carl Powers? Because I was pretty damn precocious…”

Sherlock tried to interject, “Carl did what?!”

Jim waved him off, “Kids are assholes, most of them, but what the hell do you think ANY of us could do about ADULTS? Seriously, Mycroft: you tried, you made a decision, it didn’t work; learn from it and move on. TARTS!”

“It’s not that easy…” Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock frowned, “Mycroft isn’t responsible for… for what I did, or how I chose to deal with it. I wish he had told me the truth–especially about Redbeard–but–”

“We are not talking about this now!” Jim stamped his foot. “Fine! All of us are fucked up. All of us–except Sebastian–have a whole subscription of issues AND the complete collection of back issues–but it’s TART day.” Jim glared menacingly at them both. “I’m going to go to tart day. You two can either come make tarts or stay here, but I am NOT missing the ONE class I wanted to take!”

Sebastian cleared his throat, “I can take you in… and they can stay here and talk…”

Mycroft and Sherlock rather hurriedly got up–the prospect of being trapped in a house talking to each other apparently being a potent threat.

~

Sebastian was sweating. He had driven vehicles full of people, knowing he was going to have to shoot them at the end of the drive, and been less uncomfortable than this. Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting in the back seat, not saying anything–their silence was almost a physical thing–and Jim was angrily changing radio stations at him.

“Sir, can you–”

“Why isn’t there anything loud enough to drown them out?!”

Sherlock said, “We weren’t saying anything.”

“Yes, you were!” Jim snarled.

Sebastian tried to interject, “Don’t argue when he’s–”

Sherlock huffed, “Oh? What was I saying then?”

Jim glared at the two of them in the rear view and started talking, mimicking their tones as he played each part. “Mycroft: ‘I was only trying to protect you!’ Sherlock: ‘I never asked you to! Why can’t you just worry about protecting yourself?!’ Mycroft: ‘How can I protect myself when you keep–‘ Sherlock: ‘I’m FINE!’ Mycroft: ‘If you’re so fine then why do I have to keep you from overdosing?!’ Sherlock: ‘Maybe if you wouldn’t meddle in my life so much–‘ Mycroft: ‘If I hadn’t meddled in your life, you’d be dead!’”

Jim paused and then snarled at him, “Shall I go ON?”

Mycroft was wincing, “No… I do believe you have the gist of it.”

Sherlock just curled up into his coat and shut up.

When they got to the class, Jim pulled on his persona and then, smiling politely–in a completely harmless and friendly fashion that somehow sent chills up all three of their spines–said, “Sebie will partner with Sherlock today and I’ll stick with Mycroft, because if the two of you start having an argument in Tart class I will gut you both in front of the entire school…” He gave a cheerful wave of his hand and walked in.

Mycroft stood there with his mouth open just a bit; after a pause, he looked at Sebastian and said, “Do you believe–”

“Yes, and he will–don’t doubt it for a minute.” Sebastian nodded, took Sherlock’s arm and dragged him in.

It was a very odd class. Sherlock and Sebastian made tarts and said nothing, watching Jim carefully when they could. Jim was happy, upbeat–bubbly, even! apparently utterly entranced by the class, and delighted to learn all the ways to make beautiful picture-perfect tarts. Mycroft had an oddly fixed expression on his face: every now and then he smiled as though someone had pulled his lips up with hooks.

At lunch Mycroft quietly asked, “Can I stop pretending to smile now?”

“I asked you to pretend to be interested, Mycroft: instead, you looked as though someone was–never mind.”

“I just found out that my brother–”

Jim smiled down pleasantly into his sandwich. “You need to talk about it later, yes, but if you interrupt my tart day I will make your life a living hell.”

“…right.” It was downright unsettling how believable he was while looking perfectly pleasant.

At another table, Sebastian very quietly told Sherlock, “Don’t–just don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he hissed back. “I was just–”

“Don’t do that either.”

“You’re being impossible!”

“I have worked and lived with Jim longer than anyone else and lived to talk about it: I’m the expert here.”

“You honestly think he would gut someone with witnesses?”

“One, yes; two, what witnesses?”

“The class? The teachers?”

Sebastian looked at him very levelly. “Most of the time Jim is… sane-ish; when he gets that specific look and tone? He isn’t. When he is in THAT kind of mood? Yeah, he would potentially kill someone in front of witnesses, then realize there were witnesses, and then tell me to get rid of them.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. “So we are going to be very quiet and let Jim enjoy his tarts until he stops having THAT tone in his voice, and then we will drink very, very heavily and thank God we didn’t have to clean this up, okay?”

Sherlock stared at him and then looked slowly across at Mycroft.

Mycroft, who had been lip-reading the entire conversation while Jim was pleasantly chatting with Jeanie the hippie would-be café owner, just slowly nodded.

Mycroft fixed as politic smile on his face for the afternoon session, and Sebastian only had to threaten Sherlock once.

It was a very, very, very quiet drive back to the B&B. Jim listened to classical music and Sebastian kept shooting panicked looks to the backseat.

“Sebie?” Jim said casually as he got out of the car.

“Yes, sir?” _Please don’t ask me to strangle them, please don’t ask me to strangle them…_

“Basement fairly soundproofed?”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Good!” He walked off.

Sebastian didn’t move an inch. Both Mycroft and Sherlock watched him worriedly until Jim came back in in casual wear and carrying an MP3 player. He walked past and headed downstairs.

Sebastian collapsed.

Once they pulled him up onto a chair–and Mycroft got him a desperately requested drink–he said, “Gentlemen? You might want to consider playing the lottery, because all three of us just had the luckiest day of our lives.”


	10. Culture Clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swapping stories, youthful rebellion, and leather jackets.

Mycroft waited until they had all had a glass of something–or, at least, held one and toyed with it for a bit–and Sebastian had had two, before asking, “So, how often is he… errr... not ‘sane-ish’?”

Sebastian was sitting in a chair, head back, looking at the ceiling. “I hadn’t realized it before, but… mostly when you start talking about his past? Like… childhood, I guess. I’ve just learned to avoid it.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Like at the pool. He started out rational and when he was mentioning Carl Powers he… wasn’t.”

“Most of the time he calms down pretty quick, but sometimes there’s blood before that.” Sebastian sighed.

Mycroft nodded. “And what do you think he is doing now?”

“Listening to screaming thrash metal and throwing himself around a room.” Sebastian shrugged. “He used to go to clubs to do it–even back when I first started working for him he still did–but he says he’s getting too old to go toe-to-toe with the kids.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “And that’s… a good thing?”

“It burns the excess murder off him until he’s safe to get near… so… yeah?”

“I think I shall have to go try to speak to him…”

Sherlock hesitantly spoke up, “You seemed to be getting along.”

“Oddly? Yes. He…” Mycroft paused and then smiled tiredly. “He lashes out when he’s uncomfortable: it’s… rather familiar.” He nodded at Sherlock and went after Jim.

“What?”

Sebastian looked over at him. “Well… you don’t do it physically–Jim throws knives.”

Sherlock looked down thoughtfully, “I threw things for a while… words got further.”

“Ah.”

“Carl Powers… he… raped him?”

“I have no idea. I heard about it when you did.” Sebastian poured another glass. “All I ever heard about the kid before was ‘He laughed at me’, so… maybe he did, maybe he just laughed at him for getting kicked around–raped, even–and he was the one Jim could get to? No idea.”

“Did you know he had been…?”

“No.” He stared down into the glass. ”Suspected it.”

“Why?”

“He’s almost aggressively sexual at everyone: that’s almost a classic. He’s got a boatload of PTSD triggers that pre-date Mycroft. He utterly delights in taking down big guys, loves it, which is why most of his folks bet on my being dead in a month when I started…” Sebastian swirled the drink in his glass.

“He really hates kids sometimes… privileged kids, mostly, especially jocks… but let him see an adult kicking a kid around and he gets… upset.” He added quietly, “And he’s on really surprisingly good terms with the whores and street kids...”

“He gets upset… at adults… kicking kids around… even though he put one in a bomb vest and poisoned two himself?”

“Yeah, even though.”

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “People are irrational.”

Sebastian tipped his glass at him. “Now, there’s a truth.”

~

Mycroft hesitated at the door. He hadn’t actually been in the ‘dungeon’ and had no idea what he would find; he could hear the music, though. He very cautiously opened the door and looked in: it was dimly lit, with spotlights on several pieces of play equipment. Mycroft was relieved that it looked nothing at all like any interrogation facility or actual dungeon he had ever seen–or been in.

He walked in carefully–the music was loud, if lacking in depth, and he didn’t want to startle Jim–noting the concrete floor painted to look like flag stone, the wood paneled walls–except the one painted or… _hmm… stuccoed…_ to look like building blocks.

He found Jim sitting against one of the wood paneled walls, arms around his knees, head down.

“I heard you come in; besides, the light changed.”

“I’m surprised you could hear anything over that racket.”

Jim reached over and turned off the player: _he’d hooked it up to some kind of speaker, not earplugs, thank God._

“I am glad it wasn’t earplugs,” Mycroft attempted with a smile. “If I could hear it that loudly through your earplugs, you would be deaf.”

Jim didn’t say anything.

After a look around–the only moveable chair looked a bit too close to something he’d been actually restrained to once–Mycroft sat down against the wall next to Jim.

They sat there for a while.

“How’s Sherly?”

“Confused, mostly.”

“How are you?”

“Pained. I tried so very hard to shield him from–”

“Too much.” Jim sighed, “I know you mean well, Mycroft, but you keep him from facing the consequences of his actions, and that’s why he never learned how to fit in… I mean, not at all. Like… he’ll never stop playing with fire if he doesn’t understand that it burns.”

“I think I realized that, eventually,” Mycroft sighed, “but by then it was… a bit late.”

“Stop taking on everyone else’s penalties.”

“Hmm.” They sat there again for a bit, Mycroft marveling at how companionable it felt. “How did you know? About the… I only told you about the field mission.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Ah. I… didn’t recognize it in you, I am afraid.”

Jim chuckled, head still down against his knees, “How could you? You weren’t facing it in yourself.”

“Point.”

“I’m… kind of sorry I threatened you.”

Mycroft started chuckling, “Kind of?”

Jim sat up: he looked like he had been crying, but not for a while, and he was badly disheveled. “I dunno how I would have gotten you two to shut up and let me have my class otherwise?”

“I was unaware of how deeply you felt about the proper glazing of fruit pies,” Mycroft intoned solemnly. Jim snickered.

“I guess… I guess you two need to talk.”

“I suspect all three of us do, but Sherlock and I at the least.” Mycroft sighed, “It is selfish of me, but I wish you would be there.”

“Huh? Why?!”

“You seem to have a talent for cutting through both of our defenses: ‘getting to the point’ as you might say.”

Jim considered that. “Yeah, probably.”

Mycroft stood up and extended a hand. “If nothing else, I suspect you need ice on a few bruises.”

“Definitely that.” Jim sighed. “At least this time Sebie won’t have to stitch me up,” he said, taking Mycroft’s hand and pulling himself up.

Mycroft stared at him in alarm. “You… cut yourself?”

“Nah. Aggressive mosh pit with idiot who didn’t take off his spiked jacket.” Jim shrugged. “It was a nice jacket, though.”

“You… killed him?”

Jim laughed, “No. He was falling all over himself apologizing and I ended up with the jacket as a guilt gift, I think. Most of the punk crowd–the American ones, anyway–are sweethearts.”

Mycroft blinked, “Not what I would expect.”

“Like a lot of counterculture guys, Mikey, if you come across as the government they tend to be suspicious… and if you purse your lips in disapproval at them, well… they disapprove right back–sometimes aggressively.”

As they walked upstairs Mycroft considered, “So… you’re saying that we would have gotten along better back in my college days? Listening to the Clash and trying to be cool?”

Jim sputtered and choked and Mycroft dragged him up into the kitchen.

“YOU?! Counterculture?” Jim stared at him. “You were born clutching a tie!”

Mycroft chuckled, “I had a rebellious phase in college, briefly–I was horrible at it–and then…” Mycroft looked pensive, “then I had too many duties.” He shrugged, “I was a bit young for the rest of my peers; in any case, it made it difficult.”

Sebastian came into the kitchen slowly. “Sir? Are you…” He relaxed. “Oh, good.”

“Yeah.” Jim shrugged, “Need a few ice bags, though–I was telling Mycroft about the mosh pit and the spiked jacket.”

“Oh, geez!” Sebastian smiled as Sherlock came in behind him. “That… he came back after being God knows where, and he’s bleeding and wearing this punk jacket…”

“Punk jacket?” Sherlock asked.

“Black leather, studs, safety pins, chains, and a Union Jack painted on it–we were in America.”

Sherlock smiled faintly, “Oh… I think Mycroft owned one of those.”

“Mycroft?!” Sebastian stared at Sherlock and then looked at Mycroft, who flushed faintly.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Do go on… Jim came home…?”

Jim raised an eyebrow, “After we tell this story I demand to hear about MYCROFT owning a punk leather jacket.”

Sherlock started getting out drinks and Sebastian continued, still looking incredulously at Mycroft for part of the time. “So he’s dripping blood, had some kind of dirty rag wrapped around his hand, and his jeans are torn in new places–and he’s walking like he’s hurt, you know? So I come running up and he calmly says , ‘Watch the jacket, Sebastian, it’s kind of sharp,’ and starts muttering about bandages.”

“Good Lord,” Mycroft murmured.

“So he walks into the bathroom and tells me to go get a hanger, and to move his robe out, because the spikes are sharp–then he decides it will scratch up the walls and puts a towel down and puts the thing on the towel… and I realize he’s cut up his UNbandaged hand from carrying the jacket!”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock protested over his beer.

“Uh-huh. So I get him stripped down and he’s covered in bruises–which is normal for him–and his bandaged hand is not in a dirty rag, it’s a band t-shirt! Like a whole band t-shirt?”

“I needed to wrap it in something,” Jim protested, “so I bought a band shirt.”

“And underneath that his hand looks like he was attacked by broken glass or something… I FINALLY get the story out of him how he was dancing at a club–more like a bunch of people all trying to concuss themselves–and he hit his hand against the guy wearing…” Sebastian gestured, “that damn jacket!”

Jim just chuckled. “He was terribly apologetic, and no, he never should have been wearing anything like that in a mosh pit… and the band was yelling at him and the club security was getting upset, and the poor guy was falling all over himself apologizing… so he gave me the jacket.”

Sebastian nodded. “And he tells me he’s keeping it, and then we try to find out how to put it away? You know without hanging it near his suits?” Mycroft and Sherlock nodded. “And it’s STUCK to the towel!”

Mycroft snickered and Sherlock stared at him. “You are joking?”

“Nope,” Jim laughed. “It was stuck like Velcro to the towel. And trying to peel towel bits off of it got me cut, so we finally were picking bits of towel off of it with tweezers… and then poor Sebie had to go find a WOOD box to keep it in because cardboard wouldn’t be enough…”

Mycroft looked aghast. “Why didn’t you just file the sharp points down?”

Jim looked offended, “Mycroft! It defeated all comers in fair combat–who am I to disarm it?”

Sherlock grinned, “Oh, certainly not.”

Sebastian sighed, “We still have it: he takes it out every now and then and threatens to wear it.”

Jim looked pointedly at Mycroft, “So… YOU… YOU! Had a spiked leather jacket?”

Sherlock chuckled, “Spikes, and a Union Jack painted on it–not quite that ferocious, though.”

Mycroft muttered, “It had a few band logos on it, too.”

“And just HOW did you get that?”

Mycroft flushed and muttered into his drink, “Bought it…” He cleared his throat. “You have the far better story. I… just purchased it because I was trying to… well… rebel? I suppose… and fit in at college. I was much younger than most of the rest of them…”

Sherlock grinned, “I found it and put it on and walked out in it…” then he stopped. “Oh… I…” He looked at Mycroft/ “I… hadn’t realized… I caused a problem, didn’t I?”

Mycroft sighed, “You looked far better in it, and far more authentic… whereas I looked like… well, like I was trying too hard.” He smiled. “You just looked underage–which you were.”

Sherlock ducked his head. “I thought it was funny, at the time… you having something like that.”

“It was funny!” Mycroft agreed. “For God’s sake, I had my jeans laundered and pressed.”

Jim almost choked on his beer. “Ooooh, honey… no….”

Mycroft nodded solemnly. “I was trying very hard to be… I think the phrase is still ‘cool’?” He shrugged. “You have the idea how poorly that worked, I think?”

Jim looked him over, “You do a bit of the rebellion with your suits… you could do it better.”

Sherlock looked dubious. “What do you mean? How on earth can his suits be rebellious?”

“First of all, no one in his age group wears a vest: it’s turned into a hipster thing, and it’s a bit steampunk–the whole pocket watch and three piece? It’s ironic…”

Mycroft smiled faintly. “A bit.”

Sherlock blinked. “Is it? It’s just Mycroft…”

Sebastian looked him over. “come to that, Mycroft, no… I don’t think I’ve seen anyone wear three piece to the office: formal, sure, but not every day.”

“And a sword umbrella?” Jim snorted. “Very, very punk–sort of Avengers.”

Mycroft ducked his head and smiled, “After the disastrous attempt at leather jacket punk, I admit I styled myself based a bit on Mister Steed.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Oh… I thought you were trying to… you know, out-straitlace Uncle Rudy?”

“Uncle Rudy wore boring suits to cover up his interest in color and frills.” Mycroft sighed. “No.”

Sebastian frowned, “Uncle Rudy is the one who set up... a lot of the problems right? Did he… um… did he hurt you?”

“Uncle Rudy?” Mycroft blinked at him and then looked startled, “Oh! No… he had his issues, but he wasn’t…”

Sherlock said drily, “He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a pedophile.”

Jim nodded and went back to talking clothes. “That, and you wear casual hunt patterns in a formal three piece–it’s cute!”

“I hadn’t been aware you noticed,” Mycroft said, rather taken aback.

“Like I said, Mycroft…” Jim grinned wickedly, “I always wanted to mess you up and see what you were like under all that ice…”

Mycroft flushed a bit and retreated to drinking his beer. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.

After everyone finished their beer and there were discussions about making snacks or a light meal, Jim asked, “So… Mycroft…?”

“Yes?”

“Where DID you get the jacket?”

Mycroft muttered something unintelligible into the refrigerator.

Sherlock looked over, “You never mutter, Myc;  what’s so awful about where you got the jacket?”

Mycroft pulled himself together and tried to NOT look at Jim. “It was Vivienne Westwood…”

Sebastian almost burned his hand on the kettle, Sherlock stood there with his mouth open, and Jim didn’t stop laughing for over five minutes.

Mycroft walked out to the other room with as much dignity as he could muster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i continually forget that not everyone is obsessively interested in fashion history.. (my bad)  
> Vivienne Westwood pretty much invented, with her second husband, the Punk aesthetic. she clothed "The Sex Pistols" and introduced BDSM, leather and safety pins to London fashion shopping and later went to the more regency inspired glam rock and outfitted Adam Ant.  
> Dame Vivienne Westwood is an interesting character and very active in climate change activism, recylcing, and low waste designs.  
> https://www.grailed.com/drycleanonly/vivienne-westwood-sex-punk-fashion
> 
> (she didnt even THINK about doing mainstream suits until later in her career, so ... Mycroft having one of her PUNK designs, while Jim had her suits? is ironic in the extreme)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for a rather chaotic discussion of past sexual abuse, Euros, Magnussen, and people behaving badly  
> (and poor Sebastian is trying to follow this and feels like a moron, not a Moran)

Sebastian got drinks and snacks together and they all ended up in the living room again.

“Just for the record, the fact that BOTH of you had a punk jacket–and Mycroft’s was Westwood–is eerie,” Sebastian muttered.

“My jacket can beat up his jacket,” Jim snickered.

“From the sound of it? Certainly,” Mycroft agreed.

After they’d sat quietly for a while Jim sighed, “So… since Sebastian is the only one of the four of us who wasn’t raped as a kid, I suppose he just got nominated to referee?”

Sherlock spoke up before Mycroft could say anything, “There is very little need to make him uncomfortable–I don’t think we need a referee, per se.”

“If you say so,” Jim snorted.

Mycroft had a very pinched look as he said, “I didn’t blame you for anything he did, Sherlock… I was trying to… I was trying to keep him away from you.”

“He said I came on to him.” Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft’s migraine started to come back with a vengeance, “Hardly. In hindsight, you simply moved into his target age.”

Jim shrugged, “Yeah and he was pretty.” He poked Mycroft, “Not that rapists only go for pretty, but I would expect you were both good looking kids.”

“I have no idea if I was…” Mycroft just swirled the ice in his drink. “Sherlock certainly was. I was harassed enough for being a ginger that I consider it unlikely.”

Sebastian looked questioningly at him, “You had red hair as a kid?”

Mycroft looked up slowly and then over at Jim, “You didn’t tell him?”

Jim snorted, “Is it relevant? No? Then no, I didn’t tell him.”

“Tell me what?!”

Sherlock explained, “Mycroft IS a ginger: he started dying his hair brown as he got older.”

Sebastian looked between Sherlock and Mycroft in confusion, “Why would you dye your hair?”

“Too many people fail to take red-headed men seriously,” Mycroft sighed, “and… I was harassed a great deal.”

Sherlock doggedly returned to the original topic. “He… abused you? Abused you too?”

“Yes.” He could smell him suddenly and feel his hands–Mycroft was startled back to reality by a smaller body crawling into his lap–he had momentary flashbacks to Sherlock and himself when they were younger… then he realized where he was, and when… “Jim?”

“You were shaking again,” Jim said yawning. “Do go on.” He put his head down under Mycroft’s chin.

Sherlock was staring in shock and looked at Sebastian, only to find Sebastian wincing.

Mycroft cleared his throat hesitantly, “It’s a bit difficult to go on when–“

“Don’t make me stab you, Mycroft,” Jim said tiredly.

“You are exceedingly odd,” Mycroft huffed.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jim snorted. “You DO know Euros was also abused, right?”

Mycroft pushed Jim back. “What? No, she was always dangerous…”

Sherlock simply looked thoughtful, “That… would make sense.”

“What?!”

“I assumed so from the first, partly because she saw it in me immediately,” Jim said casually–but Mycroft could feel minute tremors in the body against him.

Sherlock quietly stated, “I never understood her… of course, I didn’t remember her for most of my life…”

“she was a psychopath.” Mycroft stated, as if that was the end of the topic.

Jim shrugged against Mycroft, “Just because you were actually victimized doesn’t mean you aren’t also a vicious psychopath. People keep acting like it’s one or the other.” Jim paused and then asked, “So what happened anyway? I followed the mess as much as I could from out of the country.”

“You worked with her,” Mycroft sighed, “wouldn’t you know?”

“I never worked with her, Mycroft,” Jim chuckled. “Although she was fascinating–it was like seeing what you two could have been if you were ACTUALLY sociopaths.”

“You know I’m lost here,” Sebastian grumbled.

Mycroft, who found that he had somehow wrapped an arm around Jim, raised an eyebrow, “Jim didn’t mention her?”

“Since I have no clue who or what you are talking about? No.”

“Apparently I had a sister,” Sherlock said quietly, “and she… played some very lethal games with us.”

Jim sat up just a bit. “She got an earlier start at killing people than I did, but then she had help. After she burned the house down she got locked up by ‘Uncle Rudy’.” Jim settled back against Mycroft. “I was wrong, you know: I thought it was your Uncle Rudy… he was just the follow up act–locking her up like that.”

“She murdered my friend because she was jealous…” Sherlock said very slowly… “and she controlled people… she… Mycroft sent you to see her.”

“In hindsight, I suspect I was being influenced more than I knew…” Mycroft sighed and put his head back, looking at the ceiling. “It seemed reasonable at the time.”

Jim looked thoughtful, “I’m sure it did seem reasonable. Anyway she made it pretty clear that you two were her personal playthings and I was in the way–told me to get lost or else she’d lose me.”

“You recorded a great deal for her.”

“Well… yes?” Jim shrugged. “And she tried to have me killed for real, and I faked my death and got the heck out of the country.”

Sebastian was looking incredibly lost–Sherlock glanced at him, “She… was eerily good at manipulating people.”

Jim poked Mycroft with his elbow, “So? I only got the semi–classified information–what happened?”

“She almost killed us all–”

Sherlock interjected, “And John.”

“I do believe he counts as ‘all’, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. “As I was saying, she almost killed us all, and then retreated into catatonia again.” He sighed, “She seemed to be coming out of it a bit–for whatever good or ill that might bring–when she was poisoned by one of the staff.”

“Really? Damn…” Jim muttered, “I had bets… shit.”

“You… had bets?”

Sherlock looked curiously at him, “What were you betting on?”

“Burning the place down with herself in it.”

Mycroft hesitantly asked, “Bets with whom?”

“Myself, Mycroft. No one else is usually worth playing with. So she’s dead for real?”

“Yes.” Mycroft sighed and put his head back again. “Her autopsy was extremely thorough, and we always had plans to study her brain.”

Sebastian coughed deliberately, “So you have a third Holmes–”

“Had.”

“HAD a third Holmes, who was also a genius, and she… murdered Sherlock’s friend and… almost killed you all? But was locked up? I’m really lost.”

Jim stretched and rolled his neck against Mycroft. “She pretty well ran the prison, Sebie. Imagine trying to lock me up for life–” Sebastian snorted. “Only she worked with more manipulation and fewer restraints.”

“I would have argued the fewer restraints,” Mycroft murmured, “but you are likely correct.”

Sherlock sighed, “So she was abused? By the same person who… abused us?”

“It seems obvious in retrospect,” Mycroft nodded, “especially since grandfather didn’t live long after the fire–the smoke inhalation lead to complications–but she was so very dangerous…”

“Figures I got my record beat out by a Holmes,” Jim muttered.

“For the idiot in the room,” grumbled Sebastian, “All THREE of you Holmeses were abused by your grandfather, but this sister was locked up somewhere?”

“For suspicion of murdering Sherlock’s friend, for self-injury, and while the family was getting her help–or trying to–she set the fire that burned down the house,” Mycroft answered. “You aren’t an idiot, you simply don’t have the facts.”

Jim added, “Apparently their Uncle Rudy let it be thought that she died in the house and whisked her away to be locked up for life–too useful.”

“Far too useful,” Mycroft said bitterly.

Sherlock added, “And Mycroft knew and kept it a secret–took over once Rudy had to retire.”

Jim spoke up sharply, “Mycroft was a KID, Sherly! He may have looked like a grown-up to you–since you were a younger kid–he may have been worlds more adult sounding than most of the mouth breathers out there, but he was a KID!”

“I thank you for the support but–”

Jim pushed himself off of Mycroft and started pacing around the room. “Mikey… you were a KID. Okay, a very, very smart kid, but your Uncle Rudy was the respected grown up, and from what I found out you got bribed pretty heavily”

“I was NOT bribed!” Mycroft sat up and snapped.

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “Yes you were. You went into an intensive political track, and Uncle Rudy got you into your studies early, and your current career…”

“He recognized my talents.”

“Of course he did, Mycroft! And he USED that, just like he used Euros: he played you all against each other because between controlling your psychopathic baby sister, and dangling the right bait in front of you, he got the brilliant analysis and work that he couldn’t manage himself.”

Mycroft opened and closed his mouth several times. “…what?”

“He kept Euros around–and you followed up on that–to be the brilliant analyst he couldn’t possibly be.” Jim stopped and then the angry, sneering body language bled out of him, “Oh… oh you… of course.” Jim sighed and sat down next to Mycroft. “You were desperate for affection and approval and you thought he was helping you.”

Mycroft’s head was spinning as facts suddenly re-settled in place differently.

Sherlock quietly said, “Uncle Rudy was a manipulator and a horrible person; the only thing I really can say for him was that he wasn’t a rapist.”

“He… was using us both…” Mycroft stared up at the ceiling.

Jim sighed and leaned into Mycroft’s shoulder. “Of course he was, Mycroft. Think about it: two brilliant minds, hers pure manipulation, you with a political bent and interest already…”

“I suppose I wasn’t as intelligent as I thought…”

“You were a KID, Mycroft. You can be as smart as you like, but old age and cunning beats youth and skill every time–especially if you cheat.” Jim grinned, “It only comes out in your favor if the kid has cunning and cheats better than the adult… and you, Mycroft, were up against a master.”

It was quiet for a long time, broken only by the sounds of ice in glasses.

Sebastian muttered, “Every single bit of this is fucked up.”

“At least that,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I hated him, of course.”

“That much was obvious,” Mycroft smiled tiredly. “Of course he tried to get you into MI6 operations as well.”

Sherlock shrugged, “He dropped his interest in me other than as leverage on you, Myc, over the drugs–he reminded me of a very slightly less despicable Magnussen, frankly–it was always about leverage.”

“Oh ugh,” Jim made a face. “Mags? I was delighted to have heard you shot him, Sherly, although… I admit, I wondered how much he got away with.”

“Too much,” Mycroft sighed. “I still think that Euros manipulated me into taking him less seriously than I should have.”

“Magnussen was a rapist,” Sherlock said flatly.

Jim made a worse face, “You didn’t have to sleep with him, either of you?”

“Good God, no!” Mycroft looked horrified.

“Narrowly averted,” Sherlock said calmly. “He made it clear he had plans.”

“And if I had known that BEFORE you shot him, Sherlock…” Mycroft growled.

Sherlock shrugged and looked at Jim, “You?”

“Oh, certainly,” Jim shrugged. “He was lousy in bed, as you might expect.”

“What?!” Sebastian sputtered. “Jim? Why am I finding out all of this NOW?!”

“You…?” Mycroft looked puzzled. “And Magnussen?”

“Sebie,” Jim sighed. “Let’s see… For most of the first year you worked for me you never even knew who I was. When I moved you up to personal work… well, I was a bit touchy.”

“You mean ‘thinking about killing me constantly’,” Sebastian said drily.

“Touchy, like I said.” Jim shrugged. “And by the time I… by the time I got to TRUST you? Why would I bring any of that up? It was ancient history.”

“Because your PTSD triggers can be lethal?” Sebastian snorted, “for other people… like me?”

Jim paused, “Well… uh… okay, point.”

“What WAS your involvement with Magnussen?” Mycroft asked slowly. “He was used by the government, but… he also had leverage on a lot of people.”

Jim actually hesitated, which got everyone’s attention. “It started back when I was much less powerful: I don’t like discussing it,” Jim admitted. “Eventually we were… more equal. We traded information sometimes.”

Sherlock frowned, “He had blackmail on you? I don’t see how.”

Mycroft stated politely, “Proof of criminal activity would have been quite dangerous.”

Sebastian grumbled, “Why isn’t there anyone I can shoot? Why?”

“Fine,” Jim sighed. “Look… Let’s go back to the basics: Mycroft was trying to keep Sherlock from being hurt, and since HIS method was to shut down, wall everything off, and insist it was all fine and he didn’t have any feelings–that’s what he kept shoving at Sherlock. Sherlock is far, far more empathic than Mycroft is by nature–”

“Empathic?!” Sherlock and Mycroft both said at once.

Jim continued as if they hadn’t interrupted, “–so he numbed the pain with drugs. In addition, since he couldn’t be close to anyone without caring about them, he would deduce at people and they’d leave.”

Sherlock was opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, while Mycroft was looking thoughtful.

“That makes sense,” Sebastian nodded. “Sherlock is a lot more passionate than I ever would have expected…”

“Of course, the fact that they’re both completely outside the usual range of intelligence and processing means they have other issues,” Jim shrugged. “I mean… I always suspected Sherly was autistic and I’m pretty sure Mycroft is.”

Sherlock considered, “Possible in my case, but of course the only autistics that our parents would have known would have been in institutions…” Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down, “I have far more of the traits I have researched. I don’t see them in Mycroft?”

Mycroft looked curiously at Jim, “I don’t either?”

“You have an obsessive need for control, partly because you are easily overwhelmed, you can’t stand crowds… you have touch sensitivities, texture issues, and sound issues…”

“It’s easy to be overwhelmed when too much information is presented,” Mycroft said, and then muttered, ‘especially when so much is idiotic.””

Jim shrugged, “It’s hard to tell with you two. After all… we already knew you weren’t normal…”

“Certainly not.” Mycroft shuddered. “Idiocy seems to be the mean.”

“Mean?” Sebastian asked.

“Average,” Sherlock supplied, “as in: reversion to the mean.”

“Oh.”

Jim continued, “Since you are so far out of the ordinary–and you both have PTSD issues on top of that–how can an ordinary diagnostic tell me anything? It just seems like you both have a lot of autistic traits and coping issues.”

Sherlock frowned, “And you? Do you?”

“Nah.” Jim waved a hand, “I’ve got totally different issues.”

Sebastian pulled Sherlock into his lap and wrapped his arms around him. “PTSD would mimic autism?” Sebastian asked. “That… I don’t see how?”

“Huh? Oh… no, no, it just can make some of the symptoms hard to determine. Like having touch issues,” Jim waved at Mycroft. “Is it from PTSD involving touch and texture from an assault? Or is it the hypersensitivity from Autism?”

Mycroft stated firmly, “We don’t need to discuss–”

“YOU asked me to cut through the bullshit, Mycroft: stop bullshitting.”

Mycroft winced, “Alright, point.”

“Look,” Jim sighed and looked at his watch, “I’m sorry this all blew up before tart day, and I’m sorry that my coping methods cost us some more time this evening… Tomorrow was supposed to be a light day anyway: how about if we just call out tomorrow and…”

“Drink heavily?” Sebastian suggested drily.

“Talk about this,” Jim said firmly.

“Right,” Sebastian sighed. “I’ll put a few more cold packs in the freezer and get the first aid kit ready.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “To better days,” Mycroft said quietly–it was his usual toast.  
> “To outliving the bastards,” Jim said–that was his.

Sherlock watched Jim speak quietly to Sebastian before heading up to bed. He noted that Jim tucked his head under Sebastian’s chin briefly in a similar fashion to the way he had–utterly impossibly–done with Mycroft. Once they were upstairs he hesitated, trying to find a way to ask….

“You know you fidget from foot to foot? Just ask.” Sebastian would normally have sounded teasing–right now he sounded subdued.

“Something is wrong, but not violently so. Jim tucked his head under your chin the same way he did to Mycroft, which is odd because that’s normally a submissive gesture and Jim isn’t. Jim was SITTING on MYCROFT and it doesn’t make sense.” Sherlock spat it out rapidly. “I must assume that these gestures are more typical with you but they still don’t make sense.”

Sebastian sighed and pulled Sherlock into his arms. The pressure was comfortable–Sebastian was quite strong, after all.

“You trust me not to hurt you, even though you’d be hard pressed to break my hold, right?”

“Of course? And we have safe words…”

“Jim… It took Jim YEARS to trust me enough to let me wrap my arms around him, or to… cuddle up with me,” Sebastian said quietly. “People HURT him, Sherlock–badly. Obviously I didn’t know the details, but… anything that limits his motion? Usually off the table.”

“…he said he was abused as a child.”

“He told me once that he never trusted anyone bigger, or stronger, than he was.” Sebastian pulled Sherlock in tighter. “I’m… kind of shocked, and kind of jealous, that Mycroft has that much of his trust.”

Sherlock thought about it–it was always difficult to be objective with Mycroft, or Jim. “They were sleeping together, but they didn’t have sex… and you saw them?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian nosed at Sherlock’s hair, “and he doesn’t do THAT normally at all.”

“…I’m sorry that you had to be dragged into the family mess, but… I think I’m glad you’re here?”

~

Mycroft hadn’t expected Jim to leave Sebastian to go off with Sherlock, and he definitely hadn’t expected Jim to show up in his room in his underwear.

“No loungewear today?” Mycroft always found the man so hard to read.

“You didn’t like the feel of silk, but you don’t like skin either–not too many other options,” Jim said casually. “You changed the sheets?”

“Certainly… I suppose you didn’t need to change yours since you hadn’t slept in them.”

“You change the sheets every DAY?”

“…Yes?”

Jim just grinned and shook his head, “Holmeses.”

“Don’t you change your sheets?”

“Not daily, unless I did more than SLEEP, Mycroft.” Jim smirked at him and Mycroft flushed. “You are so adorable, you know? Gotta love a ginger and how they blush.”

“I got teased a great deal about it.”

Jim just waved a hand at him and pushed him into the bed.

…

Mycroft woke up from a nightmare–Grandfather and Rudy and Euros and Sherlock overdosing, the interrogators were hitting him–to find himself being pulled and rolled in the bed. “Whr? What?”

“Wake UP, Mycroft!” Jim sounded angry.

“My… apologies? What?”

“You’re heavy you know?”

Mycroft flinched and Jim snorted, “Mycroft! You’re over six feet TALL: if you weren’t heavy you’d be a STICK!”

“Ah… yes, well…”

“You rolled onto me and started whimpering in my ear–I panicked and I hit you… You need ice.”

“I… I need ice.” Mycroft sat up carefully and the pain in his ribs resolved from interrogation to… _yes, probably Jim._ “I… thought it was interrogation? Or something… I’ll go get ice. Apologies for bothering you.”

Jim shrugged, “Yeah, I thought I was being… Anyway, I didn’t have the leverage to break anything and I wasn’t quite awake.”

Mycroft walked down for an ice bag. _He thought he was being raped. How the hell can he_ … Mycroft got the ice bags, and two glasses and the leftover bottle of wine from dinner the night before, and went back up.

“I have no idea how you tolerate me,” Mycroft admitted.

“Well, you brought wine, that’s a good start,” Jim said eying the wine bottle thoughtfully.

“You know what I mean.”

“I thought I knew you,” Jim shrugged. “I didn’t. I can tolerate YOU just fine–it’s the other Mycroft I couldn’t stand.”

Mycroft smiled tiredly and handed off the wine while he put the ice bag against his ribs and used the tie of his robe–again–to hold it in place. “I have an eerie sense of déjà vu here… As to what you said? I don’t imagine you could tolerate someone who enjoyed… hurting you. I didn't like having to BE the other Mycroft.”

Jim poured the wine expertly into two glasses.

“To better days,” Mycroft said quietly–it was his usual toast.

“To outliving the bastards,” Jim said–that was his.

~

To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock had insisted that Sebastian take Jim in to class.

“It’s a short day, and mostly a tour… you’ll be back just after lunch,” Sherlock said calmly. “I highly doubt Mycroft and I need a minder every minute, and frankly… there are a few things that are between us at the moment.”

So Sebastian had taken Jim in, and Jim had pulled on the persona he was using, and Sebastian tried to smile politely and wondered how badly things were going back at the B&B, and how Mycroft had gotten so close to Jim, and whether that ache somewhere he couldn’t quite name was jealousy or something else.

…

“Stop thinking so loud,” Jim grumbled on the drive back.

“Can’t help it.”

“Pull over.”

Sebastian pulled over. A small part of him wondered if Jim was going to shoot him, but it was only a small part.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Jim muttered, reading his mind in the way he did sometimes. Then he got out of the backseat and got into the passenger side.

“Can’t imagine why it was on my mind…” Sebastian smiled. Jim had that closed-in cranky look that meant he was about to talk about something important–really important, as opposed to just business.

Jim sat back and stared out at the scenery. “It’s pathetically tree-ful here, you know?”

“Tree-full? Is that a word now?”

“Yes, it’s a word now.”

“Gotcha.” Sebastian filed it away with other new words he’d learned from Jim, like “stabbity”. “Is it a good word?” _Because feeling stabbity definitely wasn’t._

“I don’t know,” Jim grumbled. “Look, Sebie… you… I know you don’t like it as soft as I do.”

“…I’m sorry it took me so long to find out what you like.”

“And I’m glad Sherlock… I’m glad he’s a good outlet for you.” Jim was playing with one of his knives, but hadn’t opened it yet–just turning it over in his hands, a nervous habit.

“He’s… he’s kind of odd, but… we actually get along pretty well out of bed, too.”

“Did you know you’re the second?”

Sebastian was used to abrupt changes of topic by now and just raised an eyebrow. “Second most dangerous man in London?”

“The world, Sebie,” Jim sniffed. “Think big. But, no: you’re the second man I ever… I was talking to Mycroft…”

“Uh… can you unpack that?”

“We were talking about sex partners…”

“No way I’m the second guy you ever had sex with,” Sebastian stared at him in disbelief.

“The second one I ever had sex with because I wanted to,” Jim said quietly, turning the closed knife over and over in his hands.

Sebastian felt like the bottom of the world had dropped away and he was suddenly in free fall. There was an odd sort of noise/not noise in his head, like when your ears are full of water…

“Jim…?”

“That’s all. I just thought you should know.”

Sebastian pulled Jim–over his pro forma protests–across the seat and as much into his lap as he could in the driver’s seat. The horn honked briefly until he got Jim settled against his side.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said very seriously. “I’m sorry that you ever had any other kind of sex, ever…. And… it explains a lot.”

“…Let go of me,” Jim grumbled–he didn’t mean it.

“And neither that, nor ‘You fucking bastard’, is a safe word,” Sebastian said, rubbing his cheek against Jim’s hair.

“Yeah, well… I told you. You were complaining about finding shit out.”

“No, I was complaining about not having found out EARLIER…” Sebastian corrected.

“Well… given that I told Mycroft already, I thought you should know.”

Sebastian tucked Jim’s head under his chin–Jim let him. “Since I don’t think I met the first…”

“Died long before we met, Sebie.”

“…Was he good to you?”

“…I don’t think we were good to each other, honestly, but we were what we had.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. hubby is still to ill to proof read, all errors my own  
> 2\. content warning for past abuse, past child abuse and CANON underage references

Sebastian insisted on going in ahead of Jim, just in case they were throwing things.

“They’re Holmeses,” Jim snorted, “they throw words and play music badly at each other.”

But when they got in it was quiet.

Mycroft was sitting in the living room, “Colonel?”

Sebastian snorted, “Minor functionary.”

Mycroft actually chuckled, “very well; Sebastian.” 

“Mycroft. Where’s Sherlock?”

“Ostensibly he is exercising, however… we had a very productive but difficult discussion and… I think he would like company.”  Mycroft looked pained for a moment, “I…I will ask you to consider that he may want more comfort than… his usual tastes.”

Sebastian nodded and looked at Jim who made a ‘shoo’ gesture: he left for the basement.

“How are you holding up?”

“I shall manage.”

“That bad, huh?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “Well, I have several cures for that.”

“Ah? And what is your prescription?” he waved his hand at the surroundings, “this was…needed, but it’s difficult.”

“I have an extremely scientific prescription, actually: chocolate, milk fat, sugar, and alcohol.”

Mycroft snickered faintly, “hardly scientific.”

“Oh but it IS… theobromine has loads of studies…”

“Milk fat?”

“simulates several hormones and triggers the contentment signal in the brain–cheese was the usual form they studied but I find heavy cream works fine.”

“Sugar for energy I presume,’ Mycroft said  as he decided to play along.

“Energy and it triggers a whole cascade of hormones.”

“And alcohol…” Mycroft looked thoughtful, “usually a depressant, not always a good idea.”

“In concert with the other items it acts as a bit of a tranquilizer and prevents anxiety.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you…” Mycroft couldn’t help but smile at him.

Jim nodded firmly, “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”  He escorted Mycroft into the kitchen and then said, “of course it’s critical for your good health that you have protein, so we should have eggs too.”

Mycroft blinked. “Eggs?”

“And fiber, of course.”

Mycroft blinked a lot.

…

Sherlock and Sebastian were lured upstairs when the smell of baking chocolate chip cookies became impossible to ignore.

“Baking cookies?” Sherlock  frowned, “why?”

Jim sighed in an exaggerated fashion, “Medical reasons!”

“Oh.” Sebastian nodded.

“What?” Sherlock looked at his brother only to be met with a suppressed grin.

“Apparently we are engaged in psychopharmaceutical research.” Mycroft said solemnly.

“Could be worse.” Sebastian sighed, “Last time it was brownies.”

“And that would be worse why?” Mycroft started to ask and was met with incredulous looks form Jim and Sebastian and snickers from Sherlock. “Ah, yes… brownies.”

“I think some added THC would be lovely, but it’s not my home and I don’t want to get the B&B in trouble.” Jim said very properly, scooping ice cream onto cookies and handing them around.

After that everyone was reasonably quiet except for the occasional discussion of the cookie recipe.

“So… there’s a hot tub, and I have YET to get to it.” Jim said firmly, “Since it was a rough day for Sherlylocks there, you two get to go off and get lost until dinner while Mycroft and I use the hot tub.”

Sebastian shot him a look that may as well have semaphored “are you sure” to which Jim just nodded.

Sherlock started to say “Mycroft doesn’t–”

“He’s a grown bureaucrat, Sherlock; he can make his own decisions.” Jim got up and walked off calling over his shoulder, “we cooked; you clean!”

Sebastian sighed and grabbed Sherlock before he could run off, “You can wash, or you can dry and put away, but if you don’t help me out here I will tie you up in the basement and NOT fuck you.”

~

“Need I remind you that I have seen it?” Jim sighed as Mycroft hesitated at the hot tub.

“ah. Hrm. Yes.” Mycroft sighed and stripped down. “I rarely–”

“Do anything fun, I know!” Jim nodded so enthusiastically Mycroft feared for his neck and just as abruptly stopped, “Seriously Mycroft… even out of those suits you’re cute, in a shy terribly repressed sort of fashion–damn I never thought I’d say that.”

“Of all the things you are, James, ‘repressed’ isn’t one of them.” Mycroft rolled his eyes as he settled into the hot tub.

“You could be Batman to my Joker…” Jim laughed.

“errr… Batman is a cartoon detective that–”

“And the Joker is his nemesis and everyone KNOWS they have serious lust at each other–all terribly unrequited and all.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, “Yes, well… you don’t actually–”

Rather abruptly Jim was leaning on his shoulder and speaking quietly right into his ear, “You do remember I said I always wanted to mess you up a bit…”

“I REMEMBER that this is a defense mechanism.”

“Isn’t always…” Jim sang at him.

“And how am I supposed to tell?”

Jim slid his arms around Mycroft’s neck and kissed him.  It was soft, and intense, and when Mycroft managed to open his eyes he found Jim right there looking back.  Jim’s eyes were brown, but this close they had flecks of gold and green and an overall glaze of coffee and spice colors…

No one other than his brother had ever held his gaze at close range before, but Jim was looking right back at him–wide open.  All that chaff that made him so hard to read was gone…

He was lonely, and hurting, and yes, attracted to Mycroft… and frightened of what it would mean, and… oh… Mycroft let himself kiss him back.

Jim made little noises as Mycroft kissed him.  They were small noises that sounded pleased and needy and Mycroft wanted to make him make more of them.  Eventually Mycroft pulled back.

“I suspect we would both be much more comfortable in bed.” Mycroft was rubbing little circles into Jim’s back and being unhappy at the scars.

It was a rather sloppy and soggy affair getting out of the hot tub, making rather pathetic attempts to dry off, and getting up to the bedroom, but they managed.  Somehow they ended up in Jim’s room, and Mycroft realized with a bit of shock that he hadn’t been.

“We were always in my room…”

“Do you need to be?  The lube and condoms are in mine…”

“Ah…no, this is fine.”  Mycroft hesitated, “As you very well know I have somewhat more limited experience and–”

Jim just gave him an incredulous look, “Mycroft, shut up and kiss me.”

Mycroft tentatively placed his lips against Jims again, and felt Jim breathe, and his breath shook just slightly: Mycroft started making soothing gestures with his hands again, and Jim slowly relaxed into him. Mycroft lay down with him and Jim curled into his side and tucked his head under Mycroft’s chin. Mycroft spent time stroking down his back and his side.

“Did you and Sherlock get things worked out?”

“We made a start at it.”

“That’s good.” He paused, fingers splayed on Mycroft’s chest, “I told Sebastian.”

For a moment Mycroft almost asked ‘told him what’ and the answer crystalized. “I expect he was somewhat stunned.”

“Yes.”

Jim slithered down his side and started for Mycroft’s groin… and GOD Mycroft wanted to let him, but he pulled him back up.

“You … you certainly liked it last time?”

“I did, and I would like very much to do that again, but I think we need to discuss at least a few things.”

“What is it with you and discussions, Mycroft?”

“Well, if I recall… I suspect that if I were to let you begin, all rational thought would be gone in short order.”

Jim smirked, “I would hope so”

“So IF we are going to talk, it had best be now.”

Jim sighed and flopped back on the bed dramatically. He waved a hand at him, “go on then.”

“I…” he pulled Jim in closer and tried again, “I don’t think I am well suited to sex without a relationship.”

“…aaaand?”

“If we go further… and you then go on your way and we don’t…” Mycroft rubbed at his face with his free hand–the other one being wrapped around Jim–“In case you haven’t noticed I can be a rather controlling bastard.”

Jim started laughing. “Nooooo? REalLy?!”

Mycroft grumbled until Jim settled. “I need to know what… what kind of relationship you envision here.”

“Beats me.”

“Wonderful.” Mycroft sighed.

“Honestly? Until we talked here I figured you… well you HAD a relationship.”

“Good heavens why?” Mycroft stared at the ceiling trying to figure it out. “and with whom?”

“Well, you’re good looking, you dress well, you can be a snarky bastard when you want–and some folks appreciate wit–money, position… not being a criminal or officially dead…”

Mycroft laughed, “Ah, yes… a ‘catch’ as people put it.  I’m afraid that most of the people I deal with enough to potentially have a relationship with are coworkers.”

“I figured if you liked girls it was Love–Lady Smallwood, you know? Now that she’s ditched the creepy husband.”

“I would ask how you know that but I don’t want to know.” Mycroft took a breath and went on, “Lady Smallwood has… made a few overtures toward me since she was widowed: that is all.”

“Of course she has: she’s got daddy issues.”

“I…what?”

“She’s got daddy issues.  You look more mature, you dress in an old fashioned style, and she wants you to tell her she’s a bad girl and take her over your knee or something.”

“James…”

“What?! It’s true!”

“How on earth would you come to THAT conclusion?”

“She married her husband didn’t she?”

“ah...err... yes? Obviously?”

“That’s what he liked.  I mean, she was kind of old for him but if she played the role… plus she had money and was of age so… people would stop looking at the young people in his office.”

Mycroft sat up against the headboard and looked down at Jim. “I had… understood that it was a one-time indiscretion and he was unaware of their true age?”

Jim shook his head, “No… he put up with people who were of age and looked or acted younger, but he liked them… oh about fourteen, fifteen? Ish?  Not ‘children’ like … not toddlers or anything.”

“Hebephilia… young adolescents?”

Jim nodded, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest. “Bordering on ephebophilia really.  He was fairly attracted to the range from an older looking thirteen to a younger looking eighteen.”  Jim sounded a bit distant, “He would go for older if they could be convincingly young.”

“Did… Magnussen tell you that?  Were you dealing with him during the–”

“Oh honey… Magnussen thought I was dead–he was another reason to publicly die and start over.” Jim muttered, “Which reminds me I have to thank Sherlock for shooting him.”

“Then…”

“You really want to have this discussion… gah.”

“I think I need to.” _Landmines_ , whispered a small part of Mycroft’s mind.

Jim sat back, “try to remember that I didn’t have a wealthy family and all.”  Mycroft nodded. “I knew about Lord Smallwood because he was one of my clients, Mycroft, back when I had to trade sex for what I wanted.”

 


	14. consent positive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discussions about consent and relationships  
> (posting early for mickie, still un betad)

Mycroft was very quiet and Jim was beginning to be afraid that he… he wouldn’t be able to get past, well, Jim’s past.

“Is it that upsetting? I would think the murders would be worse…”

“I suspect its upsetting me for different reasons than you think, Jim.”  Mycroft started petting down Jim’s back gently again, “I find myself wanting to rip people apart for having hurt you, except that most of them are dead… and I’m one of them.”

“You were never exactly one of THEM Mycroft… even if you did have me hurt.” Jim sighed and snuggled into him more, “And I hurt you, I suppose… scared you anyway.”

“Terrified me. I was fighting for my brother’s life.”  Mycroft let out a sharp noise that was probably supposed to be a laugh, but it wasn’t. “You, at least, I could get my hands on… even if I did it by proxy.  The drugs… the…” Mycroft shook his head.

“I’m glad you aren’t… pulling away. Most people do.”

“Ridiculous, and people are idiots.”

Jim made a soft noise and burrowed under Mycroft’s arm. “So what DID you want to talk about that pre-empted a blow job?”

“I found out that you use sex, and flirting, to push people away.  I found out much to my horror that you had been… raped… in my care.” Mycroft was tensing badly, “do you understand that I do not, in any way, want to make you feel that you HAVE to? Or … for that matter that I have misunderstood a ‘stop’ for a ‘go’?”

“Yeah, I got that… its… sweet.”  Jim mumbled, “Weird, but sweet.”

“For all that I am not into the things that… I don’t play with pain...”

“Uh huh… Where are you going with this?”

“I think we need to establish a safe word.”

Jim started giggling. “For what? cuddling? Kissing? Blow jobs?”

“Yes.” Mycroft tilted his head up to look at him, “I CANNOT trust that your flirting is, in fact, assent, since you do it from nerves, or anxiety, or to push people away just as much as to draw people in.  Since I cannot trust that I need a way to be certain you are in fact consenting… and… so am I.” he went on before Jim could say anything. “We both have ghosts in our past, Jim, triggers and landmines and…and they are involved with sex.”

Jim considered. “Alright, you have a point.  Never thought of needing it for… well vanilla stuff.”

“Given our rather troubled backgrounds?” Mycroft sighed, “Apparently color codes are common but I would like something…more unique.  So ‘red’ obviously means stop, but… do you have another choice?”

Jim considered, “Orion.”

Mycroft nodded, “Fermi.”

Jim looked thoughtful, “Do you want something that says ‘yes I’m serious’? sort of the equivalent  to ‘green’ in this situation?”

“It might be well, although I hadn’t considered it.”

Jim chuckled, “Keats.”

“An odd choice…” Mycroft murmured, “I understood Orion…”

“Truth is beauty and beauty truth… in case you think I’m just being reactive.”

Mycroft smiled then, “ah, I am slipping.”

“It was too obvious for you–you expected complexity… and you?”

“In vino veritas… or wine, if you prefer.”

“The truth did come out under intoxication, didn’t it?”

“Yes… yes it did. Which brings us to the second question or perhaps back to the first one: what do you want out of a relationship with me?”

“I don’t know…” Jim shrugged. “I have no idea?  I don’t PLAN relationships!  I mean unless it’s a ruse… hell, I never expected one with Sebie!”

“Can I tell you what I want?”

“Of course.”

“First I will say that this is a negotiation, Jim… not… this isn’t a demand.  I am quite used to laying out what I want–hoping I can get it– but prepared to settle for much less if that’s needed.”

“That’s how you do it.” Jim nodded, “so… a relationship negotiation is a bit like a business transaction only with fewer guns–gotcha.” Jim propped his chin on his hands next to Mycroft and waited. 

Mycroft nodded and took a breath. “I want you to stay with me… I want to be the one you come home to, and the one I come home to after work. I want to fall asleep with you and hold you even when neither of us wants sex, I want to schedule a day off for our anniversary, and have a note on my calendar for your birthday. I want to spend hours trying to figure out how to describe your eyes and finally give up and say ‘brown’ and know it’s entirely inadequate.  I want to listen to you delighting in something that interests you and tearing apart something you think is stupid.  I want… I want everything.”

Jim just stared at him and then started abruptly pawing at his eyes.  Mycroft handed him a tissue.

“Fucking onions.”

“Indeed.”

“When did you turn into a poet you unreasonable bastard.”

“While I did have a rather appalling poetic phase in college–the least said about it the better–”

“Was that during your rebellious punk phase?”

“Yes.”

“God, no.”

“Precisely.”

Jim bit his lip. “I won’t… I CAN’T dump Sebastian.”

Mycroft allowed himself a flicker of hope. “I am not asking you to, he protects you and…I’m not asking you to.”

“How would this even work?”

“I don’t know, but we’re the smartest men around; I’m certain we could figure something out.”

“I’ll make you miserable, Mycroft…I can’t keep to a schedule, and I’m erratic and impulsive and emotional.”

“I noticed. I suspect my rigid ways will be quite appalling to you as well.”

“What if the sex doesn’t work? I mean... we haven’t–drugged to the teeth doesn’t count.”

“Then I will be content with your time, and your affection, and… your trust.”

Jim just shook his head and looked at him with those dark eyes, “you…” he leaned down and kissed him. 

They spent several minutes exploring each other with tongue and lip, soft as a feather… until Jim moved down to mouth at Mycroft’s jaw. “How did you get under my skin like that?”

“I have no idea, but I shall cling to my fortune as long as I can.  I only regret that I almost threw it away.”

“Do you actually need dinner?”

“No.”

Jim reached out for his phone–which he’d gotten back from Sebastian at some point– and sent a text. “There.  They won’t expect us down for dinner.  I didn’t feel like being interrupted.”

“So… where were we?”

“Finding out if we’re compatible,” Jim smirked, “as the fortune cookie said…in bed.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally

Sebastian got a text and Sherlock saw him smile… it had a sadness about it though.

“What is it?”

“Jim said he won’t be down for dinner and neither will Mycroft.”

“That’s…good?”

“Yeah, I just…” Sebastian sat back against the wall and Sherlock came over and sat down with him. “I wish I’d known…”

“Known what?” Sherlock asked and then looked at him, “I think we are FAR beyond having any secrets between the four of us.”

“He said I was only the second person he ever had sex with because he wanted to.”

“Oh, that. Yes, well given that he uses sex to manipulate people, as well as his stated background of abuse? I cannot be too shocked.”

“It never…” Sebastian sighed and combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve had a lot of sex for fun, I like sex.  Sometimes it’s better, sometimes its only okay, but…”

“I think you might be my second as well… or you could be my first?  It depends on how you–”

“What?”

“Most of the time I had sex was either… not my idea, or I was paying for drugs, or manipulating people, or… getting access to things.  Rather like Jim I expect.”  He thought about it, “the other time I would think of as being ‘without ulterior motive’ was… well they were going to leave me if I didn’t.  It only worked for a while and then they left.”

“I know our first time was because of the drugs, but–”

“I did count you as the second, Sebastian.”

“That’s… just sad.”

“Mycroft’s numbers are higher than mine, but not by much.” Sherlock shrugged. “He said five, but I think he is being generous.”

“Five… five people… total?”

“I suspect the answer is closer to three, mostly because he’s used to doing things for ulterior motives, but if I take him at his word? Yes, five.  We discussed it this morning.” Sherlock made a face, “and I DO NOT want to discuss his sex life–or mine– with him anymore:  I hope I don’t have to.”

Sebastian just sat back against the wall.  “Out of how many, for you?”

“I don’t know, I deleted a lot of them.”

“Rough estimate?”

“Between twenty and forty? I think?  Most of which would have been rather quick, to get drugs, once my funds were cut off…or when I was high, and unable to… well to really consent or not.”

“So ninety percent or more…”

“Yes.”

“And Mycroft?”

“He has a better percentage just because he’s had fewer sex partners at all.” Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully, “This really distresses you.”

“Yeah.  It does. I…I can’t even imagine how…” he shook his head.

“Well… I enjoy sex with you–more importantly I like being with you–so hopefully my brother and Jim can…” he smirked, “Better their percentages.”

~

Mycroft was trying not to show his nerves. “I am afraid I don’t actually know what you like... and as I said I haven’t been with a man in… quite a while.”

“Slow, gentle, lots of touching… you’re a good kisser, which helps.” Jim shrugged, “Honestly I LIKE sex, I like most forms of sex… I just prefer it a lot softer when I have the option.” He considered, “I rarely got a blowjob from anyone but Tiger–it’s nice to get one as well as give one, although I actually do like giving them as long as…”

“They don’t try to choke you.” Mycroft filled in.

Jim flashed a tired smile, “All too common.  I don’t mind someone tugging on my hair but… apparently Sherlock likes–”

“I would MUCH prefer to leave details of my brother’s sex life out of this–I already know too much from this morning.”

Jim snickered and then continued. “I like penetrative sex, both ways… IF the person penetrating isn’t rough with me.”

“I… haven’t had… well; none of the women I have been with were likely to try that.”

“You enjoyed what we did…”

Mycroft felt himself flush and… other parts regain some interest. “Immensely, except for the painful delays.”

“Do you know how to prepare yourself for…”

“In… theory.”

Jim sighed. “Bathroom, hun…part of the mess last time was the fact that I couldn’t do any prep.”

“I refuse, utterly refuse, to think about that mess.” Mycroft said stiffly.

He followed Jim to the bathroom and after an extensive lesson on preparing oneself for penetrative sex, retreated back to Jim’s room with utterly NO interest.

“I’m sorry, Jim, but… that was the antithesis of–”

“Mycroft?” Jim was smirking, “We discussed safewords, right?”

“Yes…?”

“Then sit on the bed and shut up.”

Mycroft say on the bed, shaking his head, “I have lost all interest in sex–possibly ever.”

Jim looked at him and then… his posture straightened and his smile got quite a bit broader and when he walked up and straddled Mycroft’s leg and looked down at him Mycroft felt a prickle of fear.

“Really, Iceman?  Such a pity…” and Jim slid into his lap and kissed him.  It was gentle but irresistible in the way that water finds a way through any weakness; he punctuated his words with kisses soft as a breath. “You wanted me in interrogation… I just misunderstood… I thought you liked the pain… you wanted me… even then.”

Mycroft felt like the admission was stolen from him with his air, “yes.”

Jim laughed, and the breath of it fluttered against his mouth. The dichotomy between the soft kisses and Moriarty’s threat level did… interesting things to Mycroft in ways he was quite certain were not a good idea.

“What did you want… back then… if you could have had it?” Jim asked him, sweet as poison.

“You… there are so few people worth talking to… and you… you burned…”

Jim’s mouth smiled against his lips and then moved gently to Mycroft’s jaw, “You saw me turning my wounds into weapons and you wanted it.”

“Yes… I didn’t…” Mycroft gasped as Jim’s hand found his interest and began to stroke gently, slick and smooth.

“You didn’t?” Jim spoke into his neck and rocked himself on Mycroft’s lap.

“I didn’t know… what I was looking at.” Mycroft wrapped his arms around Jim and lowered his nose into Jim’s hair. “But you were vibrant, as though… as though I was seeing color for the first time in so very long.”

Jim lifted himself up and guided Mycroft to his entrance, “You wanted to break free and you knew I could melt the ice.”

“I was afraid you could–Ah!” And Jim was sliding down onto him and there… there was that sensation he remembered… but without the desperation and the haze of drugs.

Jim rocked backwards, trusting Mycroft to hold him up, and then forward slowly. “I wasn’t able to see you, Mycroft, and you couldn’t quite see me…”

“I was afraid for my brother…”

“And yourself.”

“Per…perhaps…” Mycroft was panting now as Jim moved slowly and his muscles coaxed and pulled. “I didn’t understand…”

“And all… I saw… was what… I expected… to see…” Jim stopped talking and began to move more deliberately and then to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and bring them together.

Mycroft kissed him then, deeply, and an image of the Ouroboros came to mind, Mycroft deeply in Jim at both ends… he groaned.

They moved slowly and steadily with each other, and they kissed, and if occasionally they tasted tears neither of them was going to mention it.

Their first time was achingly slow, and they lay together afterwards, with Mycroft’s fingers tracing over Jim lightly while he stretched like a cat.

“Would you… want to..?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“Certainly,” Jim smiled, “Some day.  Is there a rush?”

“No…I want you to, but…”

“Give it time,” Jim rolled over and sprawled on top of Mycroft. “Are we about to stop seeing each other?”

Mycroft stared at him, “God no…” he breathed.

“We’ll have to work that out, you know.”

“Yes, yes we will.”

“Tomorrow.” Jim said idly and guided Mycroft’s hand to wrap around them both.

“Tomorrow.” Mycroft agreed, kissing him.

 


	16. The Queen, The Knave, and everyone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so... now what?
> 
> in which we discuss how everything goes from here. thank you for reading!

John came home from his date with Sally to find Sherlock and Sebastian–and a number of bags–in the flat.

“Aren’t you… uh…”

“Home early?” Sherlock nodded, “We skipped the last day since it was mostly socializing.”

“Probably for the best,” Sebastian nodded, “if Bernie kept making eyes at Jim I think Mycroft was going to deck him.”

“It would help if Jim’s reflexive response to people wasn’t to flirt.”

John raised an eyebrow, “I thought his first response was to threaten?”

Sebastian shook his head, “Not when he’s under cover, or playing nice.  He flirts–he flirts all the time.” He glanced at Sherlock, “Not as bad as he flirts when he means it.”

Sherlock waved a hand, “Obviously not.  My brother is, however, unused to it and it makes him jealous to an extent.  I expect he will get over it as the relationship settles down.”

“Sooo…” John walked through and started setting up tea for more than one person, “it worked out? You know I didn’t hear anything and…I was a bit concerned.”

“Worked out implies that–”

Sebastian tapped Sherlock on the shoulder gently. “Yeah, it worked out. They still have a lot to resolve, as you might imagine.”

John nodded. “I… look, I still have flashbacks about bomb vests, so… don’t leave me alone in a room with him because I will probably hit him, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, “Understandable, but best prevented.”

Sebastian sighed, “I wanted to hit Mycroft… right up until I got dragged into the group counseling shit.”

John started bringing out tea. “Group counseling?”

Sherlock made a face, “We had to discuss feelings.”

John chuckled, “Horrors.”

Sebastian shook his head, “It… it’s not my place to tell you anything, but… Captain?  I thought I knew how bad Jim’s background was, and I didn’t.”

John raised an eyebrow at the rank, but just nodded. “Well maybe someday people can fill me in on it.”

That would be up to my brother, and… his husband.”

“Wait… what?!”

Sebastian sighed, “They… um… they got married. We were the witnesses.”  He shook his head, “No clue how this is going to play out in the long term, but… they were plotting, so I guess it will.”

John glanced at Sherlock, “Both of them plotting together?  That sounds frightening.”

Sherlock nodded, “So how was your time with Sally?”

“Well… that…”

“Have you set the date yet?”

John sighed, “No not yet, frankly we wanted to talk to you first.”

Sherlock looked dubious, “Why?”

“Because if I’m marrying someone I want to at least get… the issues between the two of you resolved.”

Sherlock just said “hmmm.” And sipped his tea.

“Congratulations?” Sebastian offered.

“I don’t have a great track record here…” John sighed, “and neither does she.  We’re going to need counseling… and…” he looked at Sherlock, “for understandable reasons I am a bit leery of counselors now.”

“I suspect… everyone is, for various reasons.”

Sebastian looked around and decided not to ask. “Right. Tea. Tea is good.”

John nodded. “Tea is excellent.”

~

John helped Sally out of the car and into the building proper.  She was blindfolded and not terribly happy about it.

“Can I get this off yet?” She asked once John sat her down in a chair.

Mycroft sighed, “Yes, Miss Donovan, I trust that John has impressed upon you the need for  silence on this matter–outside of the people involved.”

Sally pulled off the blindfold and looked around.  _It looked like someone had converted a bomb shelter into a living room?_

Sherlock looked up from whatever he was doing, “Yes, someone did  convert a bomb shelter into a sitting room.”

“Hi?” Sebastian said, walking in from another door with a tea tray.

John nodded, “Sebastian Moran–formerly Colonel Sebastian Moran, we served together briefly– this is Sally Donovan: Sally? You remember Sebastian?”

“You were the one working back of house, right? And then…” her eyes tracked to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked dubiously at her. “You appear to be in a long term relationship with John, so I am making an attempt to be civil.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, “For which we are all grateful.”

Sally looked at John, “I thought we were going to do this privately.”

“Apparently I need to hear some stuff from them too…” John sighed, “Where is he?”

“Kitchen!” called a cheerful voice. “Myc? Tarts need help.”

Mycroft smiled and it was such a change on his face that John almost gasped, “Ah, well… duty first.” And he excused himself into the other room.

Sally looked after him and then back…”Oh… he got…” she cleared her throat, “He got punched too?”

John and Sebastian both chuckled; Sherlock grudgingly admitted, “A good way to refer to it.”

“That his boyfriend then?”

Sebastian sighed, “Husband, as of last week.”

Her eyes widened, “Oh!... So they were seeing each other too?”

John shook his head, “No, they weren’t, and both of them were miserable, and that trip Sherlock took was the three of us plotting to get them together.”  He waved at Sebastian. “Sebastian uh… worked for him.”

“Still do.”

“Right.”

“So he’s MI5 then?”

Sherlock just looked very amused, “Not that I know of.”

Mycroft and Jim came out with trays of tarts that looked like they could have come from a magazine photo shoot.

“Hi Donovan, interesting to meet you in person finally…”

Sally stared at him…”You… you’re…” She looked around at everyone. “Richard Brook?”

“I’d trill out ‘Jim Moriarty, Hiiii’, but Johnny boy would probably flip.” Jim shrugged, “Nice to see you again John.”

“I wish I could say the same.” John took a deep breath and a sip of tea. “At least you aren’t in that suit.”

Sherlock sighed, “I suppose we MUST drag this all up?”

“Yes we must.” Jim said firmly, “And I don’t bake in Westwood.” He wrinkled his nose, “Berry glaze? Really? Even a good dry cleaner would throw up his hands.”

Sally looked at John, “THIS… is really…?”

Mycroft smiled, “Jim Moriarty, former criminal mastermind, and my husband.”

Jim looked thoughtful, “Well… best to get this over with.  John? I’m sorry I put you through all that, kind of.”

“Kind of?!”

“I know you didn’t know it at the time, but if I wanted to get rid of either of you…” he waved at Sebastian.

John sighed, “Right.”

“Can I bloody well get an explanation?!”

Jim looked at her and John and shrugged, “It was all really between me and Sherlock to begin with–everyone else got dragged along for the ride. John was the best bait, and honestly… I was a bit jealous because I had a crush on Sherlock at the time. You were a useful tool because you hated Sherlock, so I made sure you and Anderson got all the evidence you wanted.  It… was a bit personal with John, but not you.” 

Mycroft pushed a plate with a small tart on it over, “Do have a tart.”

John looked dubious, “is it poisoned?”

Sherlock looked annoyed, but Jim just shrugged, “Sherly… you poisoned him enough… why wouldn’t he ask? No, it’s not poisoned, if you like I’ll take a bite.”

“So… neither of you died.” Sally started rubbing her forehead.

“Brilliant observation, Donovan.” Sherlock  started  and then Sebastian tapped his shoulder and he grumbled back into his tea.

Mycroft nodded, “and they moved away and avoided London, until the rather unexpected news of the Watson-Holmes nuptials.”

Jim nodded, “And I got Sebie in as part of the catering staff and I was in with the flowers… and we all got dosed with the damned punch–thank you for the ginger ale, Sally… I owe you one.”

“And to think I came here figuring I was going to just apologize…”

“Still should.” John nodded. “Although there’s obviously more to it.”

“Fine… I have no idea what to do about…” she waved at Jim, “but since it’s all probably top secret and never happened I suppose nothing.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft nodded.

“I’m… sorry about calling you a freak,” Sally said through a locked jaw, “even if you are a bloody wanker.”

John started coughing violently.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You made your feelings very clear, why apologize?”

“Yeah? And have you considered what it meant to any of us? I spent decades on the force clawing my way up–not like a woman has an easy time of it even if I was white– and they let a junkie waltz right into the investigations?  You gave them every excuse they needed to completely stall my advancement!”

Sherlock blinked, “What?”

“White, male, rich background..” she glared at Mycroft, “Relatives pulling strings–and yes that became obvious eventually after Lestrade started meeting with you and the chief started getting phone calls– and suddenly we were all incompetent and no one got a promotion.  I’d been due to hit detective after my last case and then it was all Sherlock  Holmes this and Sherlock Holmes that…”

Sherlock frowned and looked at Mycroft.

“I did not do anything to hinder her position…” Mycroft sighed, “However tempting it was later it would have been too obvious after your death.”

“I nearly lost my job when that fell apart.” Sally glared at all of them, “That’s why I was grateful for the chance to work with MI5 at the wedding.”

Sherlock shrugged, “You were, at least, an honest policewoman.  The evidence was…” he glanced at Jim, “convincing.”

Jim sighed, “Sherly, if you hadn’t gone to such lengths to annoy people it wouldn’t have held up for a minute.”

Sherlock grumbled, “Yes, I am aware of that.”

Jim shrugged, “But of course Sherlock coming along threw a wrench into the homicide division.  I’m sure it got worse once my games started–after all they were rather designed for Sherlock to solve, not… anyone else.”

Mycroft frowned, “I… suppose I hadn’t considered it important.”

Sally started to say something and bit it back.  She finally said, “No, none of you have a clue about what life is like without all that privilege… or why it grated on everyone that our promotions and reputation were getting trashed.”

John sighed, “I hadn’t understood either, not until you explained it to me.”

Jim looked up brightly, “Well… your work with the wedding party probably helped you out I would think?”

“A bit.” Sally agreed and finally gave up and had a bit of tart.  She blinked at it, “You made this?”

“Mycroft helped, but tarts are something of a favorite,” Jim laughed.

John hesitantly had a bit of his tart and paused, “this… is really good!  That baking vacation… you actually… er… baked?”

Jim snickered.  Mycroft said solemnly, “We were threatened with dire consequences if we interfered with tart day.”

Sebastian muttered, “lottery tickets.”

“Baking vacation?” Sally asked.

Everyone settled down to tea and tarts and Sally got brought up to speed on the plot to get the two of them together.

John looked around, “So you two got married in Vermont…”

Sherlock nodded, “and the two of you are considering marriage but need counseling.”

Mycroft tilted his head politely, “which is why we thought Miss Donovan, as your prospective spouse, should be brought into this.”

Sally looked at John and then over at Jim–who really looked quite pleasantly harmless in a polo shirt and slacks. “So… um… you’re rather publicly dead… how is that going to work?”

Mycroft smiled and took Jim’s hand. “James Donnelly turned out to be a relative of Jim Moriarty who was often pressed unwillingly into being a body double for the man.  We met by happenstance in Vermont and… after a bit of difficulty, well… he was relieved to find someone to tell about all the terrible things he’d been forced into, and I was very pleased to get more intelligence than we ever got from Moriarty…”

John looked highly dubious. “IS anyone going to actually buy that?”

“Not my personal staff, no.” Mycroft said calmly.

Jim shrugged, “The background checks will be flawless, though.”

Sherlock sighed, “And the people who are not fooled?”

Jim smirked, “Why don’t you know? Mycroft broke me.”

Sebastian and Sherlock both sat up and even John looked confused.  Sally mostly muttered into her tea.

Mycroft nodded solemnly, “As you know, Jim Moriarty, after the… punch incident… was taken off by me in complete secrecy and privacy–for revenge, of course.”

John looked at the others and nodded, “yeah… that was…”

Sally suddenly spoke up, “Oh… so they think you brainwashed him?”

Jim smiled sharply, “broke me to pieces– Mycroft has a reputation you know.  Now I’m just a play toy–who knows, I might even believe the story by now… he’s had me for months after all.”

“I don’t like this story.” Sebastian growled.

Sherlock frowned, “Are you going to be able to live with it?” he asked Jim.

Mycroft sighed, “He came up with it.”

“Oh we have so many stories,” Jim snickered. “After all, all of my remaining people will KNOW that while the Iceman thought he was breaking me, I broke him… he believes his own press don’t you know.  Now I have access to the highest levels of intelligence…” he laughed up at Mycroft, “as if I didn’t already.”

“I still may never recover.” Mycroft shook his head.

“From what?” John looked around dubiously.

“As part of… before we married James and I agreed to be completely honest about a few things…”

Sally looked around, “well, you’d need to I guess.”

John looked sympathetic at her, “That’s why you’re here. I insisted.  I didn’t want… I needed you to know what you were getting into before you did.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, “The fact is that Jim told me a number of his contacts and associates already placed highly in intelligence.  We are … carefully curating who gets told which story.”

Jim grinned cheerfully, “and Tiger?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re my guard, on assignment from Mycroft.  We had your records… corrected.”

Mycroft nodded, “You were on deep undercover assignments for my office. You’re current assignment, at a very classified level of course, is to guard my husband.”

Sebastian’s mouth dropped open.  It took him quite a while to say anything really. “That… that would be wonderful…”

Sally looked around, “So where do I fit in here?”

Mycroft shrugged, “Officially? You are completely uninvolved other than your work at the party and with the capture of the persons responsible.  In addition I am recommending you for a transfer into MI5 and further training–with a commensurate raise in both security clearances and pay.

“Unofficially… well, with great effort we have found a therapist who has the requisite clearance to know ANY of this, and is competent enough to be worth dealing with.  They may NOT know about the details with my relationship with Jim–you are only involved in that because of John’s insistence that you be fully informed. They are, however, rather well versed in dealing with children of alcoholics and relationship counseling after bad prior relationships.”

“Right.” Sally looked thoughtfully around. “Is there someplace I can scream and punch a pillow in privacy for a bit?”

Jim nodded. “There’s a gym. Through that door, first left… keep going until you run out of going.”

She nodded and went out.

Sherlock looked at John, “I had no idea my involvement was an issue, I thought it was beneficial.”

“So did I, but… apparently there was enough bias against her already that having a civilian show her up? Well…”

Mycroft sighed, “Sadly there are such idiotic things at all levels–I simply wasn’t paying attention to it.”

Jim shrugged, “I knew, but of course I didn’t care–not then…  Anyway! So, Johnny… thanks for helping to set us up and… congrats?”

“Thank you I think, and… um… congratulations to you two.”

Mycroft smirked, “I trust you understand, Doctor Watson, that I will not be attending your wedding… or the rehearsal dinner? I also advise you to avoid the punch…”

John stared at him, “I trust you understand that you’re as much a bloody wanker as your brother?”

Sherlock just looked amused, “Where do you think I learned it from?”

“So are YOU two getting married?”

Sebastian looked a bit shyly at Sherlock, “Well… now that I’m not a dishonorably discharged criminal anymore… would you consider it?”

Sherlock frowned, “Why would you think that would matter to me? If you wish to be married, very well, if not, very well.” Sherlock grumbled, “Ridiculous nonsense, marriage.”

Jim cackled, “More to the point, are you going to object if I keep shagging Sebastian? I think I need to know since as my official guard we’ll be living together.”

John glanced at Mycroft but didn’t see any signs of a problem.

Sherlock just blinked at him, “Why would I mind?”

Sebastian picked Sherlock up and hugged him and while holding a rather put out Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, “Thank you… I know I wasn’t what Jim needed, but… I didn’t want to…cause you two problems.”

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow, “Jim and I discussed our…needs.” Mycroft blushed very faintly, “and a polyamorous relationship on his part seemed to be the best option.  Naturally it requires full consent and pre-approval from everyone involved–as well as discretion.”

“Put me down!” Sherlock grumbled.

John shook his head, “You know all of you are kind of strange?”

Jim looked offended, “Kind of?!”

“Very strange.” John amended.

Mycroft looked serenely at John, “I am reliably informed that normal is a dryer setting, for whatever that means.  In any event–given your participation in that ‘vacation’ as well as your involvement with everything else… you needed to be informed properly of what was going on.”

“Well, yeah–I’d rather not have any misunderstanding about…”John glanced at Sebastian, “well thinking Sebastian was cheating on Sherlock, or breaking up your marriage or anything.”

Jim shrugged, “It’s going to be a bit of a mess, and I’m going to be keeping a very low profile, of course… or rather ‘James Donnelly’ will be.” He laughed, “And Mycroft and I are already signed up for more cooking courses.”

Sebastian glanced at Sherlock, “The Irish one?”

“Ah.”

John shook his head, “I don’t know why I ever tried to anticipate how this would work out…”

“Well, if I couldn’t anticipate it I fail to see how anyone else could.” Sherlock said calmly, “However if I recall correctly, Donovan tends to become more interested in sex after stress, so you might want to catch up to her in the gym.”

John stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

John walked off to find Sally and Sherlock looked thoughtfully at Sebastian, “Gay marriage is still somewhat less than accepted–given your recent recovery of your reputation, is this something you would want public?”

“I think… yes, but... I also think I need to get used to being reputable again?” He looked at Jim and Mycroft, “and thank you both.”

“Good.” Nodded Sherlock. “Well now that that’s settled, I suspect my brother wants to be… romantic.” Sherlock shuddered. “Come on, I know where there’s a bedroom.”  He grabbed Sebastian’s arm and took him out; Sebastian pausing a moment to smile back at the two of them.

“Alone at last!” Jim laughed.

“Indeed.” Mycroft smirked, “Just the two of us and our tarts.”

“I’m more than enough tart for you, Mycroft.”

“Indeed you are.” Mycroft leaned over and kissed him.

Jim fed him a bit of tart and grinned, “Your majesty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Queen of Hearts.”

Mycroft smiled and replied, “She baked some tarts, all on a summer day…?”

“The knave of hearts he stole the tarts–”

“I would a hundred times rather be the Queen than the King in this story.” Mycroft said quietly, putting a hand on Jim’s neck and kissing him again.

“I’ll always be a Knave, though.”

“You cannot steal what is freely given.”

“True.” Jim’s eyes were dancing, “But I can pretend… sit back and let me have my wicked way with you.”

Mycroft laughed, “Only if I can have my wicked way with you later.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Queen of Hearts  
> She made some tarts,  
> All on a summer's day;  
> The Knave of Hearts  
> He stole those tarts,  
> And took them clean away.  
> The King of Hearts  
> Called for the tarts,  
> And beat the knave full sore;  
> The Knave of Hearts  
> Brought back the tarts,  
> And vowed he'd steal no more.
> 
> Mycroft doesn't want to be the King (who had the Knave beaten)
> 
> Many of the other comments are references to events in the prior story, or earlier chapters (like 'lottery tickets' )


End file.
